J*  3-ol 

Jjt>6r 


ftlNW.  OF  GALIF.  L»RARY.  LOS  ANGELAS 


"Don't  move,"  he  cried.     "I've  got  you." — Page  204. 


HIS 
LUCKIEST    YEAR 


BY 

FRANCIS  J.  FINN,  S.J. 

Author  of  "Pe?cy  Wynn,"  "Tom  Playfair,' 
"Harry  Dee,"  etc. 


{  BENZK3ER  BROTHERS 


NEW  YORK,  CINCINNATI,  CHICAGO 

BENZIGER  BROTHERS 


COPYRIGHT,   1918,  BY  BENZIGEK  BROTHERS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

Showing  how  Bob  Ryan  in  trying  to  be  kind  is,  in 
effect,    looking    for    trouble 8 

CHAPTER  II 

Bob,  bearding  the  lion  in  his  den,  and  in  dire  danger, 
invokes  the  dove  of  peace  with  startling  results     ...     23 

CHAPTER  III 

Into  the  home  of  the  Corcorans  Bob  Ryan  brings  the 
dove  of   peace 35 

CHAPTER  IV 

Bob  and  Albert  become  friends,  and,  united,  put  an  end 
to    an    ancient   feud 44 

CHAPTER  V 

The  Flower  Section  is  organized,  and  begins  its  prom- 
ising career  with  a  case  which  still  involves  a  mystery    58 

CHAPTER  VI 

The  strange  conduct   of  Mr.   Corcoran,   and  the  mys- 
teries attendant  upon  his  giving  up  work  forever     .      .     66 

CHAPTER  VII 

In  which  Bob  starts  something  really  worth  while  .     .     77 

CHAPTER  VIII 

In  which  the  author  takes  pleasure  in  introducing  the 
Xaverian  Acolytes  engaged  in  secret  service     ....     86 

5 


2129624 


6  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  IX 

Narrating  how  Bob  became  prefect,  the  mystery  of  the 
Lady  in  Black,  and  the  wonderful  oration  of  Johnny 
O'Brien  ...............  104 

CHAPTER  X 

In  which  the  mystery  concerning  the  late  Mr.  Corcoran 
is  cleared,  and  Mrs.  Corcoran  learns  much  from  Bob 
Ryan  ................  123 

CHAPTER  XI 

Bob  at  the  circus.  A  mysterious  visitor.  The  Lady  in 
Black  once  more  ............  145 


CHAPTER  XII 

So  near  and  yet  so  far!     The  first  meeting    ....   159 

CHAPTER  XIII 

IB  which  charity  interferes  with  study,  Bob  is  await- 
ing surprising  news,  and  the  great  examination  day  la 
at  hand  .  .  1M 

CHAPTER  XIV 

Bob's  failure,  the  comments  of  Mr.  Lawton  thereon, 
and  the  unhappy  results  ..........  172 

CHAPTER  XV 

In  which  Bob  has  his  picture  taken,  with,  as  the  sequel 
will  show,  extraordinary  results  ........  190 

CHAPTER  XVI 

Bob's  picture  produces  effects  which,  as  the  sequel  will 
show,  more  than  atone  for  his  failure.  Bob  falls  asleep, 
to  be  awakened  by  a  delightful  surprise  .  ...  .  .  £08 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  XVII 

Showing  how  brides  and  grooms  should  act  when  chil- 
dren greet  them.  A  last  look  at  the  Flower  of  Pioneer 
Street.  Bob's  farewell.  Alice  and  Elizabeth  meet  the 
Lady  in  Black 216 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

Tom  Temple  turns  back  time  in  his  flight.  Old  faces 
and  old  friends  once  more 229 

CHAPTER  XIX 

In  which  one  surprise  follows  upon  another      .      .      .   240 

CHAPTER  XX 

la  which  the  mystery  of  Bob's  childhood  is  cleared  up, 
he  enters  upon  a  new  life 248 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

A  SEQUEL  TO  "LUCKY  BOB" 

CHAPTER  I 

Showing  how  Bob  Ryan  in  trying  to  be 
kind  is,,  in  effect,  looking  for  trouble. 

ON  the  last  Saturday  of  September,  as  the 
bells  of  St.  Xavier  announced  the  morn- 
ing hour  of  ten,  a  chubby  youth,  faultlessly 
dressed  and  looking  the  picture  of  joy  and 
health,  emerged  from  a  house  on  Pioneer 
Street,  Cincinnati,  glanced  up  and  down,  and 
then  turned  briskly  eastward.  The  boy  car- 
ried under  his  right  arm  a  rather  large  pack- 
age. It  looked  as  though  the  contents  were 
oranges;  and  that  they  were  oranges  beyond 
all  doubt  any  one  with  a  sense  of  smell  could 
have  certainly  attested. 

It  was  a  bright,  crisp  morning,  with  a  touch 
of  autumn  in  the  air.  It  was  good  to  be  out 
on  such  a  day.  Certainly  the  rosy  youth 
seemed  to  think  so;  for  he  threw  out  his  chest 
and  took  several  deep  breaths,  stepping  for- 
ward briskly  as  he  did  so.  Pioneer  Street, 
apparently,  was  deserted.  It  is  the  easy  cus- 
tom of  the  school  children  residing  on  that 

9 


10  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

famous  though  short  thoroughfare  to  lie  abed 
late  on  Saturdays.  The  Saturday  late  sleep, 
in  fact,  has  become  a  tradition.  Ten  o'clock  on 
that  particular  day  of  the  week  is  the  hour  of 
rising.  The  boy  therefore — who,  it  should  be 
said,  was  an  alien  on  the  street,  having  resided 
there  only  a  few  weeks — did  not  expect  to 
meet  or  greet  any  of  his  new  friends.  But  he 
was  agreeably  disappointed. 

Miss  Alice  O'Shea,  residing  in  the  neat  two- 
story  frame  house  which  faces  and  blocks  Pike 
Street,  casting  a  chance  look  out  of  her  win- 
dow as  she  was  engaged  in  the  completion  of 
her  simple  Saturday-morning  toilet — much 
simpler,  of  course,  than  on  the  days  when 
school  was  held — caught  sight  of  the  ruddy 
stranger.  Alice,  aged  eleven,  good-natured 
almost  to  a  fault,  liked  the  new  boy.  He  was 
good-natured,  too.  Had  he  not  presented  her 
with  an  apple  a  few  days  ago,  apropos  of  noth- 
ing? Had  he  not  always  greeted  her  with  a 
smile?  When  she  got  up  her  birthday  party 
she  had  settled  that  among  her  guests  Bob 
Ryan  should  be  the  Abou  Ben  Adhem  of  the 
list,  and  lead  all  the  rest. 

Some  children  there  are  who  bask  in  smiles. 
They  love  the  cheery  face.  Alice  was  just  that 
sort  of  girl.  There  was  nothing  sentimental 
about  this  blue-eyed,  fair-complexioned,  and, 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  11 

under  her  mother's  dextrous  fingers,  curly- 
haired  girl.  She  was  matter-of-fact,  and  loved 
the  smile  of  welcome  or  of  farewell  as  she 
loved  the  sunshine  and  the  caressing  airs  of 
springtime.  On  perceiving  the  youth,  there- 
fore, advancing  down  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  Alice  gathered  up  her  hair  in  one  com- 
prehensive sweep  of  her  two  hands,  massed  it 
into  a  ball,  and  with  a  hasty  hairpin  or  two, 
with  a  resultant  effect  not  altogether  lovely, 
pinned  it  into  stability ;  and  taking  a  perfunc- 
tory glance  into  the  mirror,  rushed  to  the  front 
door,  darted  out,  and  tripped  across  the  street, 
just  in  time  to  catch  her  quarry  as  he  was 
about  to  turn  into  Pike. 

Alice's  industry  did  not  go  unrewarded: 
the  stalwart  lad,  who  looked  full  sixteen, 
though  he  was  not  yet  fourteen,  turned  an  eye 
of  welcome  upon  the  gingham-gowned,  bare- 
footed apparition,  and  smiled  beamingly. 

"Good  morning,  Alice!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Good  morning,  Bob  Ryan,"  returned  Alice 
with  a  smile  little  inferior  to  the  boy's. 

Alice  allowed  her  gaze  to  wander  from 
Bob's  face  to  the  bundle  under  his  arm.  Curi- 
osity got  the  better  of  this  lineal  descendent 
of  Mother  Eve.  She  sniffed  the  air,  and  said, 
with  a  question  mark  in  her  intonation : 

"Oranges?" 


12  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Yes,"  returned  Bob  Ryan.  "You  know 
Albert  Corcoran?" 

"The  eighth-grade  boy  who's  down  with 
typhoid?" 

"Yes ;  but  he's  not  exactly  down  now.  He's 
convalescent,  you  know." 

"Oh,  dear!"  cried  Alice,  "do  you  think  he'll 
die?" 

"Dye  what?"  broke  in  a  strange  voice,  "his 
whiskers?  He  ain't  got  any  yet,  and  you'll 
be  peroxidizing  your  hair  a  long  time  before 
he'll  find  it  worth  while  buying  a  razor." 

Alice  turned  a  severe  eye  toward  a  window 
whence  issued  these  words.  Master  Johnny 
O'Brien,  their  utterer,  stood  grinning  there. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  Johnny  O'Brien,  aged 
twelve,  in  the  course  of  his  natural  life  that 
any  conversation  held  on  Pioneer  Street  was 
confidential  or  not  intended  for  his  ears.  He 
was  always  putting  in  his  oar. 

"You  easy-dropper!"  she  flung  out. 

"I  ain't,"  protested  Johnny,  appalled  by  the 
unaccustomed  word,  and  wondering  what  it 
meant. 

"You  go  on  upstairs  and  wash  your  face," 
continued  Alice.  "This  conversation  is  private 
— you  hear?" 

Bob  chuckled.    John  looked  contrite. 

"I  didn't  intend  to  butt  in,"  he  protested. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  13 

"Well,  you  did,"  insisted  Alice. 

"John — you  John,"  came  a  rich  alto  voice 
from  above,  "you  come  right  up  and  get  your 
neck  washed,  or  not  a  step  out  of  this  house 
will  you  stir  to-day." 

At  which  dire  threat  John  incontinently  de- 
parted. Had  he  heard  the  conversation  that 
followed,  Bob  Ryan  might  have  been  saved 
considerable  trouble  on  that  particular  morn- 
ing. 

"I  was  saying,"  Bob  resumed,  "that  Albert 
is  convalescent,  which  means  he's  well  but 
weak.  All  he  needs  is  to  get  his  strength 
again." 

"That's  what  I  thought,"  said  Alice  bravely. 
"But  you're  not  going  to  his  house,  are  you?" 

"Of  course  I  am." 

"But  don't  you  know,  Bob,  that  he  lives  on 
EUen  Street?" 

"I've  got  his  number,  all  right." 

"Did  you  ever  see  an  Ellen  Street  boy  on 
Pioneer  Street,  Bob?" 

Bob  paused  and  knotted  his  fair  brow. 

"I  can't  say  I  have,"  he  presently  answered. 

"There  ain't  been  an  Ellen  Street  boy  or  a 
Kilgour  Street  boy  on  Pioneer  since  last 
June,"  continued  Alice.  "And  there  ain't  been 
a  Pioneer  Street  boy  on  those  streets  since  last 
June." 


14  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Is  that  so?"  asked  Bob. 

"No,"  continued  the  girl,  giving  her  some- 
what rebellious  hair  two  or  three  pats,  "and 
the  reason  is  they  had  a  ball  game  which  ended 
in  a  norful  row." 

"You  don't  say!"  cried  the  boy. 

"Yes.  There  was  four  dollars  and  eighty 
cents  up  on  the  game,  and  our  street  won," 
went  on  the  youthful  chronicler.  "And,"  she 
continued,  "our  boys  got  the  money,  all  right." 

"Well,  why  should  there  be  a  row,  Alice?" 

"It  was  this  way,"  responded  the  child.  "In 
the  ninth  inning  our  side  was  at  the  bat,  and 
their  team  had  already  had  their  inning.  They 
were  two  ahead  of  us.  My  brother  Fred  was 
our  catcher,  and  he's  told  us  about  it  at  the 
table  so  often  that  I  know  it  by  heart.  My 
brother  went  to  bat  first  in  that  last  half- 
inning,  and  he  went  out  on  a  long  fly.  The 
next  batter  got  his  baste  and  stole  second ;  the 
next  batter  got  his  baste  on  an  error;  and  the 
next  batter  struck  out;  and  then  that  easy- 
dropper,  Johnny  O'Brien — he's  always  lis- 
tening to  what  folks  are  saying — came  up  and 
knocked  a  fly  that  should  have  been  caught, 
but  was  muffed  by  the  central  fielder." 

"The  what?"  cried  the  shocked  Bob. 

"The  central  fielder,"  returned  Alice  calmly 
and  distinctly. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  15 

"Oh!"  said  Bob. 

"Then  my  brother  got  busy.  He  wanted 
some  of  that  money,  and  he  wanted  to  beat  that 
gang  up  on  Ellen  Street;  and  so,  while  Johnny 
O'Brien  was  running  to  first,  and  while  the 
other  two  boys  on  the  bastes  were  running  in, 
he  went  up  to  the  empire,  who  lives  on  Ludlow 
Street,  and  gave  him  a  norful  thump  in  the 
ribs.  The  empire  has  a  bad  temper ;  and  that's 
what  my  brother  was  betting  on.  He  turned 
round  to  see  who  struck  him,  and  he  started 
for  Fred,  and  Freddie  began  backing  away 
and  sticking  out  his  tongue  at  him.  And  while 
this  was  going  on,  Johnny  O'Brien  was  run- 
ning from  first  over  to  third.  You  see,  he 
skipped  second." 

"But  that  wasn't  fair,"  protested  Bob. 

"Wasn't  it?"  inquired  Alice  in  a  tone  which 
indicated  that  no  answer  was  expected.  "Well, 
the  other  crowd  just  went  wild:  their  catcher 
and  pitcher  ran  in  and  caught  that  empire  and 
turned  him  round,  just  as  Johnny  O'Brien 
came  running  in  from  third.  My  brother  said 
that  the  ball  was  thrown  in  from  the  field  in 
time  to  catch  Johnny,  but  the  catcher  was  too 
rattled  to  touch  him  in  time.  He  only  touched 
him  as  Johnny  slid  over  the  plate.  Then  my 
brother  and  the  rest  of  the  nine  came  at  the 
empire  before  the  other  fellows  knew  what  to 


16  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR' 

say,  and  yelled,  'How  is  it?'  and  the  empire 
said,  'Safe.' ' 

"Caesar!"  ejaculated  Bob. 

"And  while  the  catcher  and  pitcher  of  the 
other  team  were  punching  the  empire,  my 
brother  went  over  to  the  scorer  and  collected 
the  four  dollars  and  eighty  cents." 

"But  that  wasn't  fair,"  protested  Bob  once 
more. 

"My  brother  Fred,"  answered  Alice,  "says 
that  they  do  it  in  professional  games.  He 
says  that  any  player  will  cut  the  bastes  if  the 
empire  isn't  looking." 

"That  may  be  all  right  for  professionals," 
said  Bob,  "but  it's  not  real  sport.  Well,  that 
was  the  reason  for  the  row,  was  it?" 

"Just  part,"  responded  the  dear  child. 

"Did  anything  else  happen?" 

"Yes;  while  Fred  was  getting  the  money, 
the  Kilgour  Street  shortstop  grabbed  our  base- 
ball mast." 

"Mast?" 

"Yes;  you  know  what  a  mast  is,  don't  you? 
The  thing  like  a  bird-cage  that  the  catcher 
sticks  his  face  into." 

"I  understand,"  said  Bob  gravely. 

"And  one  of  their  other  players  got  our  ball, 
and  the  bat-carrier  of  their  side  got  our  new 
wagon-tongue  bat.  You  wouldn't,"  continued 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  IT 

Alice,  putting  on  an  air  of  judicial  severity, 
"think  that  Catholic  boys,  going  to  a  Catholic 
school,  would  act  like  that,  would  you?" 

"I — I — don't  know,"  returned  Bob. 

"You  don't?  Why,  that's  stealing.  All  the 
boys  on  our  street  say  so.  They  say  that  the 
Kilgour  and  Ellen  Street  crowd  are  nothing 
but  out-and-out  burgers." 

"Burgers?" 

"Yes,  burgers.  And  they  are  burgers.  I 
used  to  know  most  of  them." 

"Don't  you  know  them  yet?" 

"When  I  meet  them,"  answered  the  candid 
child,  "I  stick  out  my  tongue  at  'em." 

"What  do  they  do?" 

Alice  pouted. 

"They  say  things  about  my  hair." 

"Like  Johnny  O'Brien?" 

"Yes;  they  say  it's  pill-oxidized,  whatever 
that  means.  And  they  mean  it,  while  Johnny 
O'Brien  doesn't.  And  it  ain't.  It  just  curls 
naturally."  Here  Alice  paused,  gave  a  gulp 
and  added,  "Almost." 

"But  what's  all  this  got  to  do  with  me?"  Bob 
asked. 

"Just  this:  they've  got  our  mast  and  ball 
and  bat,  and  they  won't  give  them  up,  and  as 
long  as  they've  got  them  no  boy  of  their  gang 
is  safe  on  this  street.  We've  got  that  four 


18  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

dollars  and  eighty  cents,  which  we  won  fair 
and  square,  and  as  long  as  we've  got  it  none  of 
our  boys  dast  go  on  their  streets." 

"But  what  have  I  got  to  do  with  it?  I 
wasn't  in  that  game." 

"It's  for  everybody  on  the  street.  If  you 
live  on  Pioneer  Street  it's  enough." 

"I  don't  see  that  at  all,"  said  Bob,  "and  so 
I'm  going  to  see  Albert  Corcoran." 

"Bob  Ryan!  Don't  you  do  it.  You'll  get 
pounded.  Suppose  they  give  you  a  swollen 
lip :  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  smile  1" 

"I'll  chance  it,"  returned  Bob. 

Visions  of  an  unsmiling  and  swollen-faced 
Bob  flashed  before  the  inner  eye  of  the  infan- 
tile blonde.  She  caught  Bob's  arm  in  a  gesture 
of  entreaty,  whereupon  the  bundle  slipped  and 
fell  to  the  sidewalk.  Four  oranges  rolled  in 
various  directions.  Bob  and  Alice  were  quick 
to  gather  them. 

"One  of  these,"  remarked  the  girl  as  she 
brought  two  oranges  to  Bob,  "looks  kind  of 
funny.  Part  of  it  is  too  soft." 

"I  wonder  how  I  came  to  buy  that!"  queried 
the  boy.  "It's  no  good." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Bob:  I'll  take  it  my- 
self if  you  really  don't  want  it." 

The  child  was  young,  frank,  and  without 
breakfast. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  19 

"Give  it  here,"  said  Bob. 

He  took  it,  placed  it  on  the  top  of  the  others, 
and  presented  his  fair  admirer  with  the  biggest 
orange  he  had. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Bob!  Say,  you're  coming 
to  my  birthday  party,  aren't  you?" 

So  occupied  was  Alice  with  the  contempla- 
tion and  the  skinning  of  the  welcome  gift  that 
when  she  raised  her  eyes  again  Bob  was  turn- 
ing from  Pike  into  Fifth. 

"Oh,"  she  said  to  herself,  "he's  gone  and 
done  it.  They'll  paradise  him,"  she  went  on, 
misquoting  one  of  her  brother's  favorite  ex- 
pressions. 

Be  it  said  to  the  credit  of  the  infantile  belle 
of  Pioneer  Street  that  she  discontinued  at 
once  her  operations  on  the  orange  and  pat- 
tered back  to  her  home,  where  she  immediately 
took  possession  of  the  telephone,  with  the  re- 
sult that  within  five  minutes  every  boy  and 
every  girl  on  Pioneer  Street  knew  that  the 
genial  Bob  Ryan  was  on  his  way  to  beard  the 
lion  in  his  den. 

There  were  some  rapid  toilet  performances 
that  morning  on  the  street,  and  before  Bob 
had  gone  as  far  as  Lock  Street  there  was  a 
gathering  of  the  clans.  Every  member  of  the 
baseball  team  was  there  and  about  fifteen  other 
boys.  They  assembled  where  Pike  meets  Pio- 


20          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

neer,  and  with  grave  faces  entered  into  a  coun- 
cil of  war.  A  number  of  girls,  looking  too 
innocent  to  be  trusted,  hovered  on  the  out- 
skirts, taking  no  apparent  interest  in  the  pro- 
ceedings, but  with  sharp  ears  intent  to  catch 
every  word. 

Bob  meantime  went  briskly  and  blithely  on. 
Turning  south  on  Lock,  he  reached  that  won- 
drous up-hill  thing  called  by  courtesy  "Little 
Fourth."  The  street  was  barely  fifty  feet 
long,  but  what  it  lacked  in  length  it  atoned  for 
in  steepness.  It  served  as  a  thoroughfare  to 
the  pedestrian — and  only  the  pedestrian — into 
Ellen  Street. 

Bob  smiled  as  he  began  the  ascent.  The 
coast  was  clear.  Very  quickly,  and  breathing 
easily,  he  reached  Ellen  Street.  It,  too,  as  he 
thought,  was  deserted.  Nevertheless,  he  was 
not  unobserved.  A  young  lady  of  twelve, 
Miss  Mary  Fitzgerald,  her  two  stiff  pigtails 
tied  for  the  day,  saw  him  from  her  room,  and 
forthwith  gave  a  gasp  of  dismay. 

She  knew  Bob  Ryan.  Only  a  week  ago  she 
had  dropped  her  books  and  stationery  on  Fifth 
Street,  near  the  school,  and  Bob  had  sprung 
to  her  rescue.  She  still  remembered  his  smile. 
She  was  a  tomboy ;  Bob  Ryan  she  regarded  as 
a  good  fellow.  And  here  he  was,  unsuspecting 
youth,  walking  into  the  jaws  of  destruction* 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  21 

"Why  did  those  Pioneer  people  let  him 
come?"  she  murmured.  "Oh!"  she  added  in 
dismay. 

For  just  then  out  of  the  next  house  stepped 
jauntily  William  Devine,  the  catcher  of  the 
Ellen  Street  Ball  Club,  the  best  fighter  of  his 
age  in  the  neighborhood,  and  the  very  boy  who 
had  thrashed  the  umpire,  his  senior  by  two 
years,  on  the  memorable  June  day,  some  of 
the  events  of  which  have  been  so  faithfully 
narrated  by  Alice  O'Shea.  It  is  only  fair  to 
say  of  Mary  Fitzgerald  that  if  it  had  been  any 
other  Pioneer  Street  boy  she  would  have  been 
the  first  to  sound  the  alarm,  the  first,  if  need 
be,  to  lead  the  charge.  But  Bob  Ryan  had  won 
her. 

With  bated  breath  she  watched  as  William 
Devine  issued  from  his  gate  and,  turning, 
came  face  to  face  with  Bob. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Bob. 

The  face  of  William  Devine  went  red  as 
the  comb  of  a  turkey  cock.  He  drew  a  long 
breath,  stared,  recovered  himself,  and  said: 

"You  turn  right  round  and  beat  it.  I'll 
count  three,  and  you  start.  If  I  catch  you  I'll 
pound  you  till  your  best  friends  won't  know 
you." 

"I'm  not  doing  any  running  this  morning," 
returned  Bob  pleasantly. 


22  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

Waiting  to  hear  no  more,  and  forgetting  to 
put  on  a  shoe,  the  eager  Mary  Fitzgerald 
dashed  through  the  house,  and  by  some  devious 
way  known  only  to  herself  reached  Lock 
Street  and  set  off  at  top  speed  for  Fifth. 

There  was  a  vision  of  flying  pigtails  and  of 
imperfectly  clad  feet  presently,  which  brought 
people  to  a  standstill,  while  more  than  one 
uttered  words  to  the  effect  that  "that  freckled- 
faced  limb  of  Satan,  Mary  Fitzgerald,  had 
broken  out  in  a  new  place." 


CHAPTER  II 

Bob,  bearding  the  lion  in  Ms  den,  and  in  dire 
danger,  invokes  the  dove  of  peace  with  start- 
ling results. 

"1PVROP    that    bundle,    and    put    up    your 

••— *    hands,"  ordered  William  Devine. 

Bob  was  still  smiling. 

"I  am  not  fighting  to-day,  either,"  he  an- 
swered. 

There  was  nothing  left  for  William  but  to 
give  Master  Bob  Ryan  the  thrashing  of  his 
life.  It  was  worth  while  doing  too.  William, 
though  nearly  fifteen,  was  a  pupil  of  the 
seventh  grade.  He  was,  in  the  language  of 
the  school  physician,  "retarded."  His  devel- 
opment reflected  more  credit  upon  his  body 
than  upon  his  intellect.  In  all  manner  of 
athletic  sports  he  stood  second  to  none.  Wil- 
liam was  well  built,  a  trifle  lighter  than  Bob, 
and  unusually  agile.  He  was  far  from  being 
a  bully,  yet  it  is  only  fair  to  state  that  many 
and  many  a  time  he  had  "drunk  delight  of  bat- 
tle." As  for  the  present  adversary,  there  were 
rumors  from  the  eighth-grade  class  that  Bob 
Ryan  was  the  strongest  boy  in  the  school.  It 
was  said  that  Bob  was  a  good  boxer  and  a 

23 


24  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

wonderful  wrestler,  and  that,  in  spite  of  all 
this,  he  did  not  care  about  fighting.  These 
rumors  had  been  a  source  of  annoyance  to 
William  Devine.  They  bade  fair  to  rob  him 
of  a  hard-earned  prestige.  Up  to  the  time  of 
Bob's  arrival  he  had  been  recognized  as  the 
head  of  the  school.  Well,  the  occasion  had 
happily  arrived  when  the  matter  would  for 
once  and  for  all  be  settled. 

William  was  firmly  persuaded  that  when 
one  fights  one  must  be  sure  to  get  in  the  first 
blow.  Bob  had  scarcely  finished  his  sentence, 
when  William  struck  out  with  all  his  force  at 
the  still  smiling  face.  Up  went  both  of  Bob's 
hands— -in  the  left  the  package  of  oranges. 
That  was  the  end  of  the  package.  Eleven 
oranges  fell  to  the  pavement  and  rolled  their 
several  ways.  While  they  were  rolling,  some- 
thing happened  to  William  Devine  which  he 
has  often  wondered  about  since,  trying  vainly 
to  account  for  it.  His  arms  were  pressed  to 
his  sides  and  kept  there  by  another  pair  of 
arms;  he  was  in  the  same  second  bent  back- 
ward till  he  thought  his  bones  would  crack, 
and  then  Master  William  Devine,  the  hero  of 
many  a  bout,  found  that  he  was  flat  on  the 
sidewalk,  with  a  hearty  and  heavy  youth  sit- 
ting astride  him ;  so  seated  that  William  could 
with  difficulty  move  hand  or  foot. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  25 

It  was  a  surprising  discovery;  it  was  all  so 
sudden.  William,  lying  face  up  to  the  sky, 
gave  a  shrill  whistle.  It  was  the  call  of  the 
gang.  Even  as  he  whistled  he  looked  into  Bob 
Ryan's  face  with  a  glance  which  plainly 
showed  admiration.  Bob  had  conquered  him 
in  more  senses  than  one. 

There  was  a  quick  answer  to  the  shrill  call. 
Had  there  been  an  echo  on  Ellen  Street  it 
would  not  have  died  away  before,  baseball  bat 
in  hand,  Master  Edward  Bolan  issued  forth 
from  his  house,  some  hundred-and-odd  feet 
from  the  scene  of  the  encounter.  Edward  was 
quick  to  take  in  the  state  of  affairs.  Uttering 
a  warlike  yell,  he  caught  the  bat  in  both  hands 
and,  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  Bob,  came  for- 
ward at  a  dead  run. 

Bob's  eyes  ran  over  the  oranges  within  his 
reach.  There  were  three  close  at  hand,  and 
one  was  the  very  orange  which  the  fair  Alice 
had  critized.  Thanks  to  the  strong  fist  of 
William  Devine,  it  was  pulpier  than  ever.  He 
readjusted  himself  upon  the  prostrate  body  of 
his  foe  in  such  wise  as  to  free  his  right  hand, 
picked  up  the  discredited  orange,  and,  as 
young  Bolan  came  within  a  few  yards  of  him, 
let  it  fly  with  considerable  force.  It  struck 
the  eager  and  open-mouthed  aggressor  right 


26  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

between  the  eyes,  and  brought  him  to  a  ludi- 
crous halt. 

Somehow,  nevertheless,  the  sense  of  humor 
of  the  boys  on  Ellen  Street  was  not  aroused. 
Many  of  them,  as  they  came  thronging  from 
their  happy  homes,  viewed  the  orange-faced 
youth  unsmilingly.  In  fact,  they  wasted  no 
time  in  gazing  upon  the  blinded  victim,  who 
looked  and  acted  as  though  he  had  been  struck 
by  a  bomb.  With  quickened  feet  they  ad- 
vanced and  threw  themselves  upon  Bob.  In 
a  few  moments,  not,  however,  before  three  of 
them  had  bitten  the  dust,  Bob  was  a  prisoner, 
held  to  the  ground  by  six  of  the  heaviest  boys 
of  the  street,  two  for  his  legs,  two  for  his  arms, 
and  two  seated  upon  his  person.  William  De- 
vine  had  taken  no  part  in  this  scrimmage.  He 
was  stretching  his  arms  and  legs,  and  exam- 
ining these  extremities  as  though  to  assure 
himself  that  they  were  all  there. 

"Somebody  get  ropes,"  cried  the  lad  who 
was  holding  on  for  dear  life  to  Bob's  right 
arm. 

The  smaller  boys,  meantime,  who  were  too 
tender  in  years  to  give  more  than  their  moral 
support  to  the  battle,  had  indulged  in  a  wild 
scramble  for  the  oranges.  Ten  of  these 
youngsters  were  successful.  Those  who  were 
empty-handed,  having  nothing  else  to  do, 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  27 

started  off  in  various  directions  in  quest  of 
ropes. 

By  this  time  Edward  Bolan  was  gazing  once 
more  with  furious  eyes  upon  a  somewhat  dark- 
ened world.  Rushing  forward,  crying  at  the 
same  time,  "Let  me  at  him,"  he  was  about  to 
throw  himself  upon  Bob.  In  his  hand,  instead 
of  the  discarded  baseball  bat,  were  the  remains 
of  the  orange.  With  a  fine  sense  of  justice, 
Master  Bolan's  amiable  intention  was  to  give 
Bob  a  taste  of  his  own  medicine. 

Between  Bolan  and  his  intended  prey 
stepped  quickly  and  resolutely  William  De- 
vine. 

"No  you  don't,  Ed  Bolan,"  he  said,  catch- 
ing that  youth  by  the  shoulders.  "You  don't 
hit  no  feller  when  he's  down." 

Just  as  Bolan  opened  his  mouth  to  express 
indignation  and  other  strong  emotions,  a  very 
small  boy,  barefooted,  hatless,  and  extremely 
out  of  breath,  came  running  round  the  corner 
from  Little  Fourth  Street. 

"Cheese  it!  Cheese  it!"  he  cried.  He  evi- 
dently had  more  to  say,  but  his  breath  forsook 
him,  and  he  paused,  panting. 

"Is  it  a  cop?"  asked  Devine  anxiously. 

"No,"  gasped  the  runner.  "It's  the  Pioneer 
Street  bunch.  They're  coming." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  and  inde- 


28  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

cision.  Upon  that  silence  broke  the  sound  of 
many  feet  beating  upon  the  stony  irregulari- 
ties of  Little  Fourth. 

"If  we  let  you  free,"  asked  Devine  of  the 
prostrate  prisoner,  "will  you  promise  to  keep 
out  of  this?"  Devine  needed  the  six  captors 
for  immediate  service. 

"I'll  not  fight,  if  that's  what  you  mean," 
returned  Bob  Ryan.  There  was  a  slight  abra- 
sion under  the  husky  youth's  eye.  The  keeper 
of  Bob's  right  arm  had  found  it  necessary  to 
use  a  free-elbow. 

"Loose  him,  fellers,"  commanded  Devine, 
"and  get  ready  for  the  Pioneer  bunch." 

Bob  arose,  stretched  himself,  dusted  his 
clothes,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  broke  into  a 
smile.  An  idea  had  just  come  to  him.  The 
smile  was  still  on  his  face  when  round  from 
Little  Fourth  came  the  flower  of  the  Pioneer 
Street  youth,  twenty  strong,  their  first-line 
men,  with  Freddy  O'Shea  at  their  head.  Bob 
was  standing  on  the  sidewalk  alone.  The 
Ellen  Street  youth  of  fighting  age  were 
massed  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  awaiting 
the  orders  of  their  leader.  Back  of  Bob  stood 
ten  youngsters  of  tender  years,  each  grasping 
firmly  an  orange.  Mixed  with  these  were  five 
others,  each  carrying  his  mother's  clothesline. 
The  remaining  youth  of  the  street  were  scurry- 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  29 

ing  hotfoot  up  to  Kilgour  to  secure  help  for 
the  royal  battle  now  imminent. 

On  seeing  their  enemy  a  loud  yell  of  hostile 
import  arose  from  the  flower  of  Pioneer  Street. 
The  flower  then  paused  and  formed  into  some 
sort  of  line.  Evidently  they  were  about  to 
charge. 

Then  forth  between  the  two  massed  fronts 
sprang  Bob  Ryan,  and  held  up  a  hand  that 
somehow  seemed  to  be  clothed  in  authority. 

"One  minute,  boys,"  he  called  out  in  a 
strong,  clear  voice.  "You  fellows  all  belong 
to  the  Sodality,  don't  you?" 

At  least  forty  faces  reflected  forty  varieties 
of  disgust.  To  think  of  a  fellow  hauling  in 
the  Sodality  on  such  an  occasion — and  the  new 
Sodality  at  that!  Only  two  weeks  ago  the 
working  boys  had  been  separated  from  those 
who  attended  school;  worst  of  all,  in  the  two 
groups  thus  questioned  by  Bob  were  at  least 
twelve  new  officers.  With  a  sinking  heart 
William  Devine  reflected  that  he  was  sacristan. 
Before  his  mind's  eye  flashed  two  distinct  pic- 
tures; one,  of  his  lighting  the  candles  as  the 
boys  filed  in  to  the  weekly  meetings  at  St. 
Thomas'  Church;  the  other,  of  his  using  his 
good  right  fist  in  darkening  the  vision  of  hia 
old  enemy  Freddy  O'Shea.  Each  picture  in 
itself  was  most  comforting  to  his  soul.  But 


30  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

closely  associated,  viewed  thus  together,  they 
harrowed  his  whole  being. 

The  reflections  of  Master  Fred  O'Shea, 
medal-bearer-elect  of  St.  Aloysius  Sodality, 
were  strikingly  similar.  Both  of  these  boys 
besides  were  agreed  on  this,  that  Bob  Ryan 
had  no  sense  of  propriety. 

Bob  Ryan,  looking  upon  the  disgusted  faces 
of  friend  and  foe,  realized  for  a  few  biting  sec- 
onds— the  first  experience  of  the  kind  in  his 
life — what  it  was  to  be  unpopular. 

"Of  course,  you're  members,"  he  went  on, 
not  without  faltering.  "Well,  I'm  the  Sick 
Committee !" 

"Johnny,  Johnny,"  called  a  distant  matron's 
voice,  with  the  accent  on  the  second  syllable, 
prolonged  and  fully  an  octave  higher  than  the 
first,  "you  come  right  home!" 

Johnny  showed  no  sign  of  having  heard. 

"The  Sick  Committee!"  cried  a  host  of  in- 
quiring voices. 

"Yes.  Last  night  Father  Reardon,  our 
Director,  sent  for  me,  and  appointed  me  the 
Sick  Committee,  and  told  me  to  pay  Albert 
Corcoran  a  visit.  So  I  bought  a  dozen  of 
oranges  to  bring  him  and " 

Bob's  speech  was  here  interrupted,  as  ten 
small  boys,  with  an  alacrity  no  less  creditable 
to  their  hearts  than  to  their  feet,  crowded 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  31 

about  him,  and  pressed  upon  him  as  many 
oranges,  which,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  were 
still  intact. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  at  first?"  remon- 
strated William  Devine.  "We  aren't  angels 
upon  this  here  street;  but — "  here  William 
glared  savagely  upon  his  awe-struck  followers 
— "I'd  like  to  see  any  kid  around  here  inter- 
fere with  any  officer  of  our  Sodality  when  he's 
doing — when  he's  been — er — er ' 

"In  the  discharge  of  his  duty,"  suggested 
Edward  Bolan,  who,  one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
eighth  grade,  happened  to  be  the  new  Secre- 
tary. 

"That's  it,"  assented  the  virtuous  William, 
"in  the  discharge  of  his  duty.  You  just  go 
ahead,  Mr.  Sick  Committee,  to  see  Corcoran; 
and  if  any  kid  on  this  street  bats  an  eye  at  you 
I'll  knock  him  silly." 

"I'll  bet  he  bought  them  oranges  out  of  his 
own  money,"  said  Fred  O'Shea.  "That's  the 
kind  of  a  boy  he  is." 

The  faces  so  darkened  by  disgust  a  moment 
ago  brightened  into  favoring  glances  upon 
the  "Sick  Committee"  now  going  rapidly  upon 
his  errand  of  mercy. 

Soon,  however,  there  followed  awkward  mo- 
ments. Visions  of  Sodality  meetings  clashed 
with  prospects  of  a  good  fight,  a  settling  of 


82  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

ancient  grudges.  "Johnny"  was  now  pleased 
to  hear  his  mother's  voice,  and  departed 
gladly  homewards.  Other  youths  heard 
similar  voices:  the  Ellen  Street  crowd  was 
melting  away — all  but  the  flower  of  the  street, 
the  first-line  regulars.  They  really  did  not 
know  what  to  do.  Facing  them,  trying  at  once 
to  remember  that  they  were  hostiles  and  So- 
dalists,  stood  the  equally  irresolute  Pioneer 
Street  warriors.  What  were  they  to  do?  Turn 
tail  and  run?  That  was  against  all  their  tradi- 
tions. "Don't  run  till  you  know  you're 
whipped,"  was  their  leading  tenet.  Were  ever 
two  groups  of  boys  in  quandary  so  sad? 

The  tension,  just  as  Bob  disappeared  into 
the  house  where  young  Corcoran  resided,  was 
relieved  by  the  appearance,  at  the  head  of 
Little  Fourth  Street,  of  the  two  young  ladies, 
Alice  O'Shea  and  Mary  Fitzgerald. 

"Good  gracious!"  ejaculated  Freddy,  "if 
my  sister  and  Tomboy  Mary  aren't  walking 
arm  in  arm  like  long-lost  sisters." 

What  Freddy  expressed  everybody  felt. 
The  two  girls  had  not  been  on  speaking  terms 
since  an  entertainment  six  months  before,  on 
which  festive  occasion  Alice  had  sung  a  solo 
and  Tomboy  Mary  had  done  the  Buck-and- 
Wing.  The  singer  had  been  encored  once ;  the 
dancer  three  times.  On  the  following  day,  at 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  33 

school  recess,  Mary  had  called  Alice's  atten- 
tion to  the  difference  in  the  number  of  en- 
cores in  undiplomatic  language.  Alice  had 
answered  back  to  the  effect  that  if  she  had 
brought  all  her  friends  there  the  way  Mary 
had  done  she  would  have  gone  on  getting  en- 
cores till  the  cows  came  home.  From  this  the 
two  dear  children  had  proceeded  to  give  their 
frank  and  unvarnished  opinions,  one  of  the 
other;  after  which  they  spoke  no  more.  But 
now,  as  they  appeared  on  Ellen  Street,  their 
vows  of  eternal  friendship  had  been  once  more 
uttered.  It  was  their  common  sympathy  for 
Bob  which  had  brought  them  together.  Alice, 
a  few  minutes  before,  had  managed  to  be  on 
Fifth  and  Pike  as  the  Pioneer  Street  boys  had 
set  out  to  Bob's  rescue.  She  had  seen  the  "did- 
dle-diddle-dumpling"  girl,  one  shoe  off  and  one 
shoe  on,  come  flying  up  the  street;  she  had 
heard  Mary  adjure  the  boys  to  hasten  to  Bob's 
rescue;  and  as  they  broke  into  a  run,  she  had 
crossed  over  to  the  panting  Mary  and  given 
her  half  of  the  orange — a  half  she  had  reserved 
for  the  first  moment  of  leisure. 

Before  the  vacillating  armies  could  recover 
from  their  surprise  at  this  vision  of  peace  Alice 
called  out: 

"Look  out,  boys!  Father  Carney's  coining 
up  the  street!" 


84  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

That  settled  it.  Lust  of  battle  was  com- 
pletely dissipated.  Everybody  tried  to  look 
benevolent.  The  little  hatless  lad  who  had 
sounded  the  alarm  heralding  the  advent  of  the 
"Pioneer  Street  bunch,"  called  up  to  his  sis- 
ter on  the  second  floor: 

"M'rie,  M'rie!  trow  down  me  hat — quick!" 

She  complied  with  comprehending  sym- 
pathy. The  youth  put  it  on,  and,  as  Father 
Carney  passed,  raised  it  with  all  the  grace  of 
a  Spanish  cavalier.  He  had  no  further  use 
for  the  hat  that  day.  It  had  served  his  pur- 
pose. 

And  as  the  Ellen  Street  boys  followed  the 
example  of  the  quick-thinking  youngster,  the 
Pioneer  Street  force,  not  ungracefully,  dis- 
appeared down  Little  Fourth  Street. 

"Good  morning,  boys,"  said  Father  Carney. 
"You  look  like  a  Sunday-school  class." 

"And  that,"  muttered  Master  William  De- 
vine,  as  he  smiled  at  Father  Carney,  "is  what 
I  feel  like.  Confound  itl" 


CHAPTER  III 

Into  the  home  of  the  Corcorans  Bob  Ryan 
brings  the  dove  of  peace. 

A  s  Father  Carney  passed  on  serene  and  smil- 
•**-  ing  William  Devine  remarked: 

"It's  funny  Father  Carney  didn't  get  on  to 
us  just  now.  He  seems  to  think  we  were 
practising  hymns  or  something." 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Alice  with  a  far-away  look 
in  her  china-blue  eyes. 

"That's  so,"  added  Mary. 

And  then  the  two  young  ladies  exchanged  a 
flash  of  understanding,  too  telepathic  in  its 
nature  for  the  cruder  sensibilities  of  a  mere 
male  like  William.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was 
they  who,  meeting  Father  Carney  on  Lock 
Street,  had  told  the  priest  of  the  impending 
trouble.  They  say  that  women  can  not  keep 
secrets.  Nevertheless,  they  have  the  masonry 
of  their  sex,  and  it  begins  in  tender  years. 

Bob  Ryan  was  admitted  into  the  Corcoran 
residence  by  the  lady  of  the  house,  a  short, 
stout,  cheerful-faced  woman,  brisk  in  every 
movement,  and  with  the  clear  olive  complexion 

of  the  Italian. 

35 


36  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Good  morning,  boy." 

"Good  morning,  ma'am,"  returned  Bob  with 
his  smile  unimpaired,  "I'm  the  Sick  Commit- 
tee." 

"Ah!  glad  to  meet  you.  Shake  hands,  Mr. 
Sick  Committee";  and  Mrs.  Corcoran  gave 
Bob  a  cordial  hand-clasp.  "Is  that  your  whole 
name?" 

"It's  my  office,  ma'am.  My  name  is  Bob 
Ryan." 

"Oh,"  cried  Mrs.  Corcoran,  in  a  voice  that 
loudly  proclaimed  gladness  and  joy.  "So  it's 
you,  is  it,  Bob  Ryan?  I've  heard  of  you. 
Some  of  Albert's  classmates  have  been  here, 
and  they  like  you,  Bob." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  to  hear  that,"  returned 
the  boy. 

"Here,  give  me  your  hat.  What  in  the 
world's  the  matter  with  your  pockets?  You're 
bulging  as  though  you  had  the  mumps  all  over 
you .  Oh — oranges !' ' 

"Yes,  ma'am!  I've  come  to  see  Albert,  and, 
as  he  was  sick,  I  thought  he'd  like  a  few 
oranges." 

"I  see,"  said  the  brisk  lady,  who,  in  the  mat- 
ter of  smiles,  was  scarcely  inferior  to  Bob. 
"And  you're  the  Sick  Committee  for  the  boys' 
Sodality.  I  hope  you'll  like  Albert." 

"I'm  sure  I  will,"  said  Bob.    "And  if  he's 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  37 

anything  like  his  mother  I  hope  he'll  like  me. 
He'd  be  a  friend  worth  having." 

Loud  and  clear  rang  out  Mrs.  Corcoran's 
laugh. 

"They  told  me  you  had  kissed  the  Blarney 
Stone,"  she  said.  "I  didn't  believe  them;  but 
now  I  know  it's  true.—  —Hey,  Albert,  here's 
Bob  Ryan  coming  up  to  see  you.—  —This 
way,  Bob;  follow  me.  Watch  out  for  these 
steps.  There's  a  sharp  turn." 

Bob  followed  the  light-footed,  light-hearted 
mother  up  the  stairs,  and  was  ushered  pres- 
ently into  the  front  room,  spacious,  well 
lighted,  exquisitely  neat,  and  made  cheery 
with  a  riot  of  colors  in  the  way  of  pictures  and 
ornaments.  The  room  was  gypsy-like  in  rich- 
ness of  tone,  Catholic  in  painting  and  statuary, 
and  touched  with  rich  Italian  taste.  To  Bob's 
unsophisticated  eyes  it  was  lavishly  furnished. 
And  so  it  appeared  to  be;  only  a  trained  eye 
could  perceive  that  it  was  a  clear  case  of 
poverty  in  disguise. 

Seated  in  bed  was  a  boy  of  fourteen,  dark- 
haired,  dark-eyed,  olive  complexioned.  Six 
weeks  of  fever  had  hollowed  his  cheeks,  but 
had  not  not  robbed  him  of  his  Italian  beauty. 
His  face  was  keenly  intellectual.  One  who 
knew  Italians  would  be  inclined,  on  gazing 
upon  him,  to  prophesy  that  one  day  he  would 


38  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

win  distinction  as  painter  or  poet  or  meta- 
physician. 

"Halloa!"  cried  Albert,  extending  toward 
Bob  a  wasted  little  hand.  The  greeting  was 
simple;  but  the  gesture,  the  eyes,  the  smile 
which  accompanied  the  greeting  clothed  that 
poor  word  with  the  riches  of  the  heart. 

"Halloa!"  returned  Bob.  "Why,  you  don't 
look  sick  at  all." 

"I'm  not,"  answered  Albert,  taking  Bob's 
measure  with  unconcealed  appreciation.  "I've 
heard  the  boys  talking  of  you,  and  I  was 
hoping  you'd  come." 

"And  I've  heard  them  talking  of  you,"  said 
Bob;  "and  I've  been  just  wanting  to  come  the 
worst  way.  You  were  the  leader  of  the  seventh 
grade,  they  tell  me;  and  all  the  fellows  like 
you." 

"Is  that  so?"  snapped  the  mother.  "It's  a 
wonder  they  don't  show  it,  then,  by  coming  to 
see  him.  The  only  ones  that  have  come  near 
him  are  one  or  two  boys  on  this  street." 

"It's  this  way,  ma'am,"  Bob  explained. 
"Boys  are  awfully  fond  of  each  other;  but 
when  one  of  'em  gets  sick,  they  don't  know 
what  to  do.  Most  of  them  can't  sit  down  in  a 
strange  house  and  talk.  But  they  mean  all 
right." 

"I  remember,"  put  in  Albert,  "when  Olive 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  39 

O'Rourke,  who  lives  on  Lock  Street,  got  her 
foot  smashed  at  the  school-girls'  party,  when 
the  radiator  she  was  sitting  on  fell,  that  every 
boy  and  girl  on  Lock  Street,  and  most  of 
them  on  this  street,  called  to  see  her  the  next 
day." 

"Oh,  that's  different,"  said  Bob.  "She 
wasn't  sick — she  had  a  smashed  foot.  They 
all  wanted  to  see  that." 

"And  besides,"  added  Mrs.  Corcoran,  "she 
had  a  five-pound  box  of  candy,  a  sort  of  con- 
solation prize.  Jerry,  the  janitor,  got  Father 
Carney  to  give  her  that.  But  I  believe  you're 
right,  Bob;  a  broken  limb  seems  to  have  a  spe- 
cial attraction  for  boys,  and  a  corpse  for  girls." 

"I'd  be  glad  to  have  a  little  more  company," 
said  Albert,  whose  face  was  as  radiant  as  his 
mother's,  "but  I  don't  care  about  breaking  a 
leg  for  it." 

Bob,  a  shade  more  radiant-faced  than  even 
mother  and  son,  broke  into  a  roar,  in  the  which 
he  was  effectively  joined  by  Mrs.  Corcoran. 
Albert,  out  of  sheer  sympathy,  followed  with 
his  own  silvery  laughter. 

"You've  brought  sunshine  into  this  room, 
Mr.  Sick  Committee,"  she  said. 

"It's  coming  in  at  the  windows,  ma'am." 

"Not  the  sort  of  sunshine  you  carry  with 


40  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

you.  With  you  here,  I  think  of  Italian  skies 
and  the  smile  of  God." 

"Well,  anyhow,"  continued  the  blushing 
Bob,  "I've  brought  something."  And  out 
from  his  pockets  and  onto  the  table  came  the 
ten  oranges. 

"Oh,  thank  you.  I'm  very  fond  of  oranges," 
said  the  convalescent. 

"Do  you  like  Albert?"  queried  the  mother. 

"Like  him !  Why,  he's  up  to  everything  the 
boys  have  said  of  him,  and  more,"  answered 
Bob  enthusiastically. 

"So  are  you,  Bob.  And  you  are  welcome 
in  this  house  at  any  time ;  and  for  that  matter, 
to  anything  in  it.  Now  I'm  going  to  work — 
five  children  and  one  husband  keep  a  body 
hustling.  By  the  way,"  the  brisk  woman  went 
on,  as  she  paused  at  the  door,  "you  didn't  have 
any  trouble  getting  here,  did  you?" 

"Nothing  worth  talking  about,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Corcoran  fastened  her  eyes  sharply  on 
Bob's  disfigured  cheek,  and  drew  her  own  con- 
clusions. 

"Well,  have  a  good  talk ;  and  the  longer  you 
stay,  the  more  welcome  you'll  be.  Good-by," 
and  Mrs.  Corcoran  tripped  down  the  stairs. 

She  did  not,  however,  start  to  work  at  once. 
Opening  the  front  door,  she  surveyed  the 
street.  All  was  quiet.  But  the  street  was  not 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          41 

deserted.  Within  a  few  feet  of  the  Corcoran 
residence  stood  a  group  of  boys,  prominent 
among  them  Edward  Bolan  and  William  De- 
vine.  They  were  speaking  in  hushed  yet  evi- 
dently earnest  tones. 

"That  confounded  feud!"  muttered  the 
quick-eyed  woman.  "I  suppose  they're  wait- 
ing for  Bob  Ryan — the  little  heathens!" 

As  though  to  confirm  her  suspicions,  the 
group,  on  seeing  her,  became  plainly  agitated, 
particularly  Edward,  who  slipped  something 
at  once  with  furtive  haste  into  his  pocket. 

"Here,  you  boys,  come  this  way.  Quick," 
cried  the  Italian  woman  in  incisive  tones. 

They  shuffled  forward,  like  culprits  about 
to  receive  sentence. 

"Look  here,"  she  continued.  "Did  you  boys 
ever  see  me  use  a  broom?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  the  chorus. 

"You  did?  Well,  I  know  another  way  of 
using  it ;  and  if  you  boys  dare  to  raise  a  hand 
on  Bob  Ryan  when  he  leaves  this  house  I'll 
show  you  the  other  way  on  your  backs." 

There  was  an  awkward  silence.  The  group 
looked  pleadingly  at  William  Devine,  their 
leader. 

"Please,  ma'am,"  said  William,  speaking 
with  no  little  difficulty,  "I  won't  touch  Bob 
Ryan.  He's  the  Sick  Committee." 


42  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Oh!"  said  the  lady  with  rising  inflection. 

"And  he  can  lick  me." 

"Well!"  gasped  the  lady. 

"And  he  wouldn't  when  he  could,"  continued 
the  leader. 

"Upon  my  word!"  said  the  lady,  in  her  tone 
an  invitation  for  William  to  continue. 

"And  if  anybody  in  these  diggings  lifts  his 
hand  against  Bob  Ryan,"  continued  William, 
growing  at  once  eloquent  and  free  of  speech, 
"I'll  have  it  out  with  him  myself." 

"Then  what  are  you  boys  waiting  outside 
here  for?" 

Then  up  spake  Edward  Bolan. 

"Please,  ma'am,  Bob  Ryan  spoiled  an  orange 
on  me;  and  that  orange  was  for  Albert.  I've 
got  another  one,"  he  went  on,  dipping  into  his 
pocket,  "and  here  it  is." 

Mrs.  Corcoran  managed  to  keep  a  straight 
face. 

"Suppose  you  bring  it  up,"  she  suggested. 

"Go  on,  Ed."-    -"That's  the  ticket."- 
"Yes,  Ed;  she's  right."    Thus  did  the  crowd 
advise. 

Looking  like  a  doomed  man  on  the  way  to 
the  electric  chair,  Edward,  orange  in  hand, 
shambled  up  the  steps. 

"Come  along,  Ed,"  said  Mrs.  Corcoran  en- 
couragingly, as  she  turned  and  led  the  way. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          43 

Then  Edward  did  a  strange  thing.  Slip- 
ping the  orange  under  the  good  woman's  arm, 
he  turned  and  fled.  He  was  seen  no  more  that 
morning.  Example  is  contagious.  When 
Mrs.  Corcoran  turned  to  give  some  expres- 
sion to  a  few  of  her  feelings,  she  saw  nothing 
but  flying  legs,  and  was  presently  gazing  with 
a  smile  upon  an  utterly  deserted  street. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Bob  and  Albert  become  friends,  and, 
united,  put  an  end  to  an  ancient  feud. 

So  you  like  Brother  Cyril,  Bob?" 
"Like  him!  That's  not  the  word  for 
it.  Why,  all  of  us  like  him.  He's  had  us  for 
three  weeks  now,  and  we  all  swear  by  him. 
And  work!  I  should  say  we  do — all  except 
five  or  six.  How  can  we  help  it,  when  he 
works  so  hard  for  us?  There  are  twenty-four 
of  us  in  the  class  of  thirty-six  who  have  made 
up  our  minds  to  try  for  a  scholarship  at  St. 
Xavier  College  in  the  contest  next  June,  open 
to  all  the  eighth-grade  classes  of  the  city." 

"Do  they  count  me  in?"  asked  Albert. 

"Of  course.  Brother  Cyril  said  he  knew 
you  were  going  to  work  for  it,  and  he  has 
talked  up  that  contest  till  he's  got  us  almost 
as  interested  as  he  is." 

"It's  too  bad,"  commented  Albert,  "that 
our  school  can  get  only  one  winner.  Last  year 
Brother  Cyril  had  three  of  his  boys  in  the  first 
five  places.  He  got  the  first  scholarship;  but 
the  second  went  to  the  cathedral,  and  the  third, 
which  should  have  gone  to  one  of  our  boys, 
went  to  St.  Edward's;  the  fourth  to  Coving- 

44 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  45 

ton,  and  the  fifth,  which  should  have  been  ours, 
too,  to  the  Assumption  Parish." 

"Well,  it's  worth  trying  for  whether  a  fel- 
low wins  or  not.  Every  day  after  school  most 
of  us  stay  after  class  for  an  hour  or  more,  and 
Brother  Cyril  keeps  us  busy.  Then  we've  got 
our  home  tasks  to  do  at  night;  and  so  we're 
kept  going  all  the  time." 

"Don't  some  of  the  boys  kick?"  asked  Al- 
bert. 

"Not  so  that  you  can  notice  it.  Why,  it's 
all  volunteer  work ;  and  the  boys  are  interested. 
And  they're  jolly  and  good-natured.  The 
only  person  who  objected  was  a  guardian  of 
two  of  the  boys.  He  was  afraid  his  little 
charges  would  injure  their  health." 

"That  man  ought  to  have  been  a  woman," 
said  Albert. 

"I  say,  Albert,"  resumed  Bob,  after  adjust- 
ing the  pillows  under  the  convalescent's  head, 
"if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  come  over  here  every 
night  and  do  my  lessons  with  you." 

"Why,  that  will  be  great!"  cried  Albert, 
sitting  upright,  and  forgetting  that  he  was  still 
very  weak. 

"It  will  be  for  me,"  returned  Bob.  "Only 
I'm  bound  to  say  I  won't  be  able  to  help  you 
much  in  arithmetic.  I'm  pretty  weak  in  that." 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  Albert,  as  Bob 


46  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

firmly  pushed  him  back  upon  the  pillows.  "I'm 
strong  in  arithmetic,  and  can  help  you  in  that, 
and  if  I  don't  win  the  scholarship  I  hope  you 
will." 

"Then  it's  a  bargain,"  said  Bob,  "and  I'll 
be  here  to-morrow  night.  And  when  we  get 
through  our  lessons  I'll  read  to  you.  By  the 
way,  Albert,  how  is  it  that  a  boy  with  an 
Italian  face  like  yours  happens  to  have  the 
name  of  Corcoran?" 

"That  is  my  father's  name;  but  his  face 
doesn't  look  like  his  name  either:  he's  half 
Italian.  My  father  is  head  bookkeeper  in  a 
big  commission  house,  and  he's  got  a  mighty 
good  salary;  but  when  it  comes  to  providing 
for  a  family  of  seven,  the  money  seems  to  melt 
like  butter  at  a  picnic.  My  father  is  a  won- 
der at  figures.  He's  always  calculating  at 
something  or  other,  even  when  he's  home. 
He's  mighty  smart.  And  my  mother  can 
make  a  dollar  go  from  here  to  San  Francisco. 
Don't  you  like  her,  Bob?" 

"I  should  say.  She's  quick  as  a  flash,  and 
jolly,  and  her  smile  is  a  real  smile." 

"She  goes  to  five-o'clock  Mass  and  com- 
munion every  morning,  Bob;  and  she's  back 
in  time  to  get  us  all  up,  and  serve  breakfast. 
She  doesn't  make  any  one  else  suffer  on  ac- 
count of  her  piety.  And  I've  a  big  brother  of 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          47 

seventeen  who  finished  the  St.  Xavier  business 
class  last  June.  He's  got  a  position  at  seven 
dollars  and  a  half  now;  and  it's  a  great  relief 
to  my  mother.  She  doesn't  have  to  scrape  so 
much.  His  name  is  Angelo.  He's  working 
hard  and  expects  to  get  a  raise,  and  he's  tak- 
ing lessons  from  a  private  tutor  four  nights 
a  week.  Mother  thinks  he's  working  too  hard; 
but  he's  very  ambitious.  Sometimes  I'm 
afraid  he'll  break  down.  He's  getting  to  look 
as  thin  as  I  am.  But  he's  mighty  good." 
"And  what  about  the  rest  of  your  family?" 
"The  rest?  Oh,  there's  my  three  sisters, 
Josephine,  Vera,  and  Rose.  Josephine  is  in 
the  first  year  of  business  at  St.  Xavier's :  she's 
fifteen.  Vera's  in  the  sixth  grade,  and  Rosie 
in  the  third.  All  three  of  them,  when  the 
weather  is  fine,  go  to  six-o'clock  Mass  and 
communion.  They're  mighty  nice  sisters;  but 
my  mother  has  no  end  of  trouble  in  keeping 
them  nicely  dressed.  She  can  do  as  much  with 
a  needle  as  any  woman  in  the  parish ;  but  she's 
always  short  of  money ;  or  rather,  I  should  say, 
she  used  to  be.  My  father  gets  one  hundred 
and  forty  dollars  a  month;  but  somehow  it 
never  gets  around.  I  can't  make  it  out.  Any- 
way, I  am  sure  it's  not  his  fault.  He's  always 
figuring  and  working  at  home.  But  now  that 
my  brother  brings  her  his  salary  every  week, 


48  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

mother  hasn't  any  trouble  to  speak  of  at  all." 

"I  think,"  said  Bob,  "that  I  ought  to  tell 
you  something  about  myself.  So  far  as  I 
know  I  have  neither  brother  nor  sister;  I  have 
no  remembrance  of  my  mother,  who  died  when 
I  was  a  baby,  and  my  father  disappeared  over 
two  months  ago." 

"That's  pretty  hard,"  murmured  Albert 
sympathetically. 

"Well,  anyhow,  I've  lots  of  friends;  and, 
what's  more,  I  believe  I'm  getting  another 
good  one  to-day."  And  Bob  looked  Albert 
straight  in  the  eyes. 

"I  believe  you  are,"  answered  Albert,  catch- 
ing Bob's  hand. 

"I  suppose,"  continued  Bob,  "you've  heard 
about  our  Sodality." 

"Why,  yes,  Bob.  They  tell  me  that  I'm 
librarian." 

"Yes,  you  are;  but  you  needn't  worry  about 
your  work,  because  we  haven't  a  library  yet. 
I  think  it  was  a  good  move  to  make  the  old 
Sodality  into  two — one  the  St.  Stanislaus  for 
the  working  boys,  and  one  the  St.  Aloysius  for 
the  school  boys.  There  are  one  hundred  and 
twenty  in  our  Sodality  now,  and  thirty  of  them 
are  officers.  Father  Reardon  says  we're  pio- 
neers, and  if  we  make  a  good  start  the  Sodality 
will  keep  on  going  for  years." 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  49 

"How  about  your  being  the  Sick  Commit- 
tee, Bob?  I  never  heard  anything  of  that  till 
you  came  in." 

"I'll  tell  you  about  that,  Albert.  Last  week, 
at  our  meeting,  Father  Reardon  said  he'd  like 
to  get  suggestions  from  any  member  with  re- 
gard to  Sodality  work.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
we  ought  to  have  a  sick  committee,  and  I  told 
him;  and  so  last  night  he  sent  for  me,  said  it 
was  a  great  idea,  and  appointed  me." 

"It  is  a  fine  idea,"  exclaimed  Albert. 

"And  when  he  appointed  me  Sick  Commit- 
tee, he  gave  me  your  address.  So  I  started  out 
this  morning ;  and  it  was  the  Sodality  that  got 
me  here  safely.  When  the  boys  here  had  cap- 
tured me,  and  the  Pioneer  Street  kids  came 
rushing  to  my  help,  I  just  settled  everything 
by  saying  I  was  the  Sick  Committee.  That 
settled  it."  1 

"They're  still  fighting  about  that  ball  game, 
are  they?" 

"Yes;  sort  of  foolish,  isn't  it?" 

"And  I  understand  that  near  half  of  the  offi- 
cers belong  to  this  street  and  Pioneer.  They 
have  to  sit  together  at  the  meetings.  There's 
something  wrong  about  it." 

"Say,  Albert,  can't  we  settle  that  feud?" 

"You  can,  Bob,  I  believe." 

"How?" 


50          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

There  was  a  long  conference  between  the 
two ;  then  Devine  and  Bolan  were  sent  for  and 
interviewed.  Those  two  leaders  departed  wear- 
ing broad  grins. 

On  leaving  Albert,  Bob  found  three  raven- 
haired  daughters  of  Italy,  all  ribbons  and 
smiles,  awaiting  him  downstairs.  They  were 
really  nice  children,  these  sisters  of  Albert's, 
bright  and  beautiful,  and  typically  Italian. 
Bob  became  their  friend  on  sight. 

To  the  astonishment  of  some  one-hundred- 
and-twenty-odd  families  living  on  the  streets 
from  Ellen  to  Pioneer,  Bob  Ryan  walked  all 
the  way  arm  in  arm  with  Bolan  and  Devine. 
The  dove  of  peace  seemed  to  be  hovering  over 
the  happy  trio. 

It  was  Alice  and  her  dearest  friend  in  the 
world  since  the  day  before,  Elizabeth  Reno, 
who,  espying  them  from  afar,  gave  notice  of 
their  coming. 

At  Fifth  and  Pike — neutral  territory — the 
group  was  broken.  Leaving  the  protagonists 
of  Ellen  Street  there,  Bob  proceeded  to  Pio- 
neer Street.  Presently  he  was  in  heated  con- 
troversy with  Johnny  O'Brien  and  Freddy 
O'Shea.  It  took  these  earnest  youths  some 
time  to  understand  that  the  Pioneer  boys  had 
not  been  good  sports,  that  things  might  be 
done  in  professional  games  which  should  not 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          51 

be  tolerated  in  amateur  contests.  Fred  Q'Shea 
grew  angry;  but  Bob  remained  calm. 

"Well,  anyhow,"  said  Johnny  O'Brien,  "we 
want  to  be  fair  and  square.  Perhaps  we 
weren't." 

"And  we  are  fair  and  square,"  retorted 
Fred.  "The  Ellen  Street  club  didn't  win. 
Why  should  we  give  them  that  money?" 

"And  besides,"  added  Johnny,  veering  once 
more  to  his  leader's  opinion,  "they  stole  our 
masks  and  bat  and  ball." 

"You're  right,  Fred,"  said  Bob,  "they  didn't 
Win." 

"Well,  then,  what  the  dickens  are  you  fuss- 
ing about?" 

"Why,  just  this,"  returned  Bob.  "They 
didn't  win,  and  neither  did  you." 

"But  we  did." 

"Yes,  by  a  trick,  if  you  call  that  winning. 
But  I  don't  think  you've  a  right  to  take  other 
people's  money  on  a  trick  like  that." 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk,  Bob 
Ryan ;  you  weren't  in  that  game.  It  isn't  any 
of  your  funeral  anyhow." 

"In  one  way  it  isn't,  Fred.  But  then  you 
see  I'm  thinking  about  the  Sodality." 

At  the  word  "Sodality,"  the  air  of  ferocity 
on  Fred's  face  disappeared  with  magical  effect. 
He  saw  himself  in  fleeting  vision  passing 


52  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

around  the  medals  to  the  Sodality  on  the  com- 
ing Sunday,  and  his  face  became  obsequious  to 
his  thought. 

"How,"  continued  Bob,  "are  we  officers  to 
work  together,  if  we  have  to  pretend  being 
friendly?  It's  not  right.  We'll  not  do  things. 
We'll  never  be  the  banner  Sodality." 

The  word  "banner"  had  an  extraordinary 
effect  on  Fred.  If  the  Sodality  had  any  life 
in  it,  there  would  surely  be  a  procession  some 
sweet  day,  and  he  as  medal  bearer  would  be 
the  privileged  one  to  carry  the  banner.  Waves 
of  piety  passed  over  his  face;  he  was  looking 
just  then  as  he  hoped  to  look  when  the  great 
occasion  arrived. 

"Well,  Bob,  what  have  you  got  to  propose?" 

By  this  time  the  three  youths  were  sur- 
rounded by  the  children  of  the  street.  There 
were  no  laws  of  privacy  in  the  bright  lexicon 
of  Pioneer  Street. 

"Just  this :  we'll  call  the  game  a  draw." 

"Yes;  and  what  then?" 

"We'll  give  the  Ellen  Street  people  their 
money  back." 

"What!  All  of  it?  Why,  two  dollars  and 
forty  cents  of  it  was  ours." 

"I  said  'their  money,'  two  dollars  and  forty 
cents,"  continued  Bob.  "And  they'll  give  us 
back  our  mask  and  ball  and  bat." 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          53 

''That  sounds  fair,"  said  Fred  slowly. 

"It'll  make  us  good  sports,"  added  Johnny 
O'Brien  proudly. 

"But  hold  on!"  Fred  continued.  "Those 
kids  have  had  our  ball  and  bat  and  mask,  and 
used  them." 

"Just  so,"  put  in  an  onlooker.  "They  ought 
to  allow  us  something  for  wear  and  tear." 

"Suppose  we  take  out  one  dollar,"  sug- 
gested Fred. 

"Not  enough!"  cried  several. 

"Too  much!"  said  a  few. 

"Of  course,"  said  Bob,  "we  ought  to  be 
allowed  something  for  wear  and  tear;  but  I 
don't  think  it's  fair  for  us  to  be  the  judges." 

"Right-o,"  assented  Johnny  O'Brien.  "If 
we're  going  to  be  sports,  let's  be  good  sports." 

"Well,"  argued  Fred,  "you  don't  want 
them  to  be  the  judges,  do  you?" 

"No;  that  wouldn't  be  right  either,"  ad- 
mitted Bob. 

"Suppose  we  put  it  up  to  the  Chief  of  Po- 
lice," suggested  Johnny  O'Brien's  younger 
brother. 

"You  go  and  chase  yourself  around  the 
block,"  cried  Johnny. 

Even  the  little  girls  cast  eyes  of  disapproval 
upon  the  youthful  O'Brien,  who  very  quickly 


54  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

departed  to  console  himself  with  a  penny's 
worth  of  candy. 

"How  about  Father  Carney  or  Father 
Reardon?"  suggested  another. 

"But  they  don't  know  anything  about  our 
row,"  said  Fred.  "And  why  should  they?  It 
wouldn't  interest  them." 

"Oh,  no!"  put  in  the  fair  Alice.  "Father 
Carney  shouldn't  know  anything  about  it." 

Miss  Mary  Fitzpatrick  gazed  with  uncon- 
cealed admiration  upon  the  fair  Alice,  who  at 
that  moment  looked  as  though  she  were  posing 
for  a  picture  of  Innocence. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  boys,"  cried  Freddy  in 
a  burst  of  inspiration.  "We'll  put  it  up  to  the 
Sporting  Editor  of  the  Enquirer." 

Fred  became  for  the  moment  the  hero  of  the 
street. 

"The  next  thing,"  continued  Fred,  still 
riding  on  the  wave  of  popularity,  "is  to  collect 
some  of  that  money  that's  been  divided  up 
among  the  fellers.  We'll  sure  need  at  least 
one  dollar  and  fifty  cents." 

Freddy's  popularity,  at  least  among  the  ball 
players,  dropped  like  a  stick.  Several  of  the 
team,  looking  thoughtful,  unostentatiously 
disengaged  themselves  from  the  crowd  and 
went  their  various  ways. 

"I'll  put  in  a  quarter,"  continued  Fred,  who 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  55 

a  moment  before  had  resolved  to  donate  but 
ten  cents  to  the  cause. 

"Put  me  down  for  another,"  added  Bob. 

"And  me  for  twenty  cents,"  said  Johnny 
O'Brien.  "Let's  all  be  good  sports." 

It  was  the  ambition  of  Tomboy  Mary's  life 
to  be  a  good  sport.  She  gave  over  her  only 
nickle.  Alice,  too,  had  aspirations  in  the  same 
way,  expressed  in  the  sum  of  three  cents. 

Within  five  minutes  the  sum  was  collected. 

On  that  same  afternoon  the  Sporting  Editor 
of  the  Enquirer  received  with  perfect  gravity 
a  delegation  of  youths,  nine  in  number,  who, 
with  as  little  explanation  as  they  could  pos- 
sibly give,  wanted  to  get  the  valuation  on  the 
wear  and  tear  of  a  bat  and  ball  and  catcher's 
mask. 

It  took  half  an  hour  to  settle  the  matter  at 
eighty-five  cents;  and,  as  the  Editor  insisted 
on  paying  that  sum  out  of  his  own  pocket,  the 
peace  committee  found  itself  with  nearly  one 
dollar  on  its  hands. 

It  was  Johnny  O'Brien  who  suggested  a 
celebration  in  the  form  of  fireworks.  Johnny, 
now  the  dead-game  sport  of  Pioneer  Street, 
carried  his  point. 

On  Sunday  morning  there  were  in  the  En- 
quirer two  articles  concerning  our  young 
friends.  The  first  was  in  the  sporting  column, 


56  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

and  announced  that  the  St.  Aloysius  Ball 
Team  was  already  organized  for  the  coming 
spring,  and  was  open  to  challenge  from  any 
club  of  boys  not  over  sixteen  in  Cincinnati  or 
vicinity.  Frederick  O'Shea  was  its  captain, 
William  Devine  its  catcher,  and  Edward  Bo- 
Ian  its  shortstop.  Its  pitcher,  the  article  went 
on  to  declare,  was  the  best  twirler  of  his  age  in 
the  city,  Master  Robert  Ryan,  whose  control 
was  almost  perfect. 

"Almost  perfect,"  exclaimed  Edward  Bo- 
Ian,  as  he  read  the  article  and  passed  his  hand 
over  his  eyes,  "I  should  say  it  is." 

The  other  article  was  among  the  locals,  and 
read  as  follows: 

A  Belated  Fourth  of  July. 

Johnny  O'Brien  Celebrates. 

Doctor  Says  It's  Not  Serious. 

"Last  night  Johnny  O'Brien,  aged  13,  of 
836  Pioneer  Street,  for  the  delectation  of  his 
youthful  friends  and  admirers,  undertook  to 
shoot  off  a  giant  firecracker.  Johnny  held  it 
a  moment  too  long.  His  hand  was  burned, 
and  he  is  now  considering  taking  a  week's  va- 
cation from  school.  Johnny  looks  forward 
to  his  absence  with  fortitude.  In  justice  to 
him,  he  bore  his  pain  without  flinching,  and  his 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  57 

friends  on  the  street  unanimously  pronounce 
him  a  sport." 

Thus  in  one  day  died  out  forever  an  ancient 
feud,  from  the  ashes  of  which  arose  a  live  So- 
dality with  a  ball  team  the  like  of  which,  tender 
age  considered,  had  never  before  flourished  in 
St.  Xavier  Parish. 


CHAPTER  V 

The  Flower  Section  is  organized,  and  be- 
gins its  promising  career  with  a  case  which 
still  involves  a  mystery. 

A  FTER  the  events  set  down  in  the  first  four 
•*••  chapters  of  this  chronicle  there  was  no 
further  question  of  Bob  Ryan's  standing  in 
St.  Xavier  School.  His  feat  in  sitting  upon 
and  holding  down  William  Devine  for  nearly 
five  minutes  settled  the  vexed  question  as  to 
his  being  the  strongest  boy  in  the  eight  grades ; 
his  triumph  of  marksmanship  in  bringing  Ed- 
ward Bolan,  bat  in  hand,  to  a  full  stop  by  a 
hand-grenade  in  the  shape  of  a  pulpy  orange 
led  to  his  being  tried  out  and  selected  as  pitcher 
for  the  great  St.  Aloysius  ball  team ;  while  his 
tact  and  judicial  poise  in  putting  an  end  to 
a  feud  of  over  three  months*  duration  stamped 
him  in  the  eyes  of  parents  and  children  as  a 
second  Daniel  come  to  judgment.  Best  of  all, 
his  introduction  of  the  Sodality  as  a  factor  into 
questions  of  everyday  life  gave  new  vigor  and 
impetus  to  that  promising  organization. 

The  Sick  Committee  became  a  household 
word.  The  Children  of  Mary,  of  which  So- 
dality both  Miss  Alice  O'Shea  and  Miss  Mary 

58 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          59 

Fitzgerald  were  shining  ornaments,  took  up, 
at  the  instance  of  Alice,  the  question  of  start- 
ing a  similar  section.  They  called  it  The 
Flower  Section,  and  Alice  with  Elizabeth 
Reno,  the  girl  who  just  then  happened  to  be 
her  bosom  friend — an  intimacy  that  had  lasted 
unbroken  for  five  days  and  a  half — were  ap- 
pointed the  Flower  Section  Committee  by 
their  Director,  Father  Carney,  with  the  privi- 
lege of  choosing  a  third  member.  They  at 
once  hit  upon  Mary  Fitzgerald,  in  consequence 
of  which  choice  seven  of  their  dearest  friends 
on  Pioneer  Street  refused  to  speak  to  them 
for  fully  a  week.  Those  girls  had  local  pride. 
The  appointment  to  office  had  a  wondrous 
effect  on  the  tomboy  of  Ellen  Street;  she 
walked,  when  conscious  of  her  office — and  she 
was  conscious  of  it  in  most  of  her  waking  hours 
— with  a  certain  attempt  at  dignity,  and  gave 
up  forever  her  artless  habit  of  sticking  out  her 
tongue  at  persons  with  whom  she  did  not  fully 
agree.  Her  first  act,  on  receiving  news  of  her 
appointment,  was  to  buy  a  dozen  oranges, 
armed  with  which  and  dressed  in  her  Sunday 
best  she  came  down  upon  Alice  O'Shea  in  her 
proper  home,  and  inquired  what  girl  in  the 
Children  of  Mary  Sodality  was  ill. 

Alice's  blue  eyes  opened  to  their  widest. 
She  shook  her  flaxen  curls.    Yes,  flaxen  curls! 


60  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

The  readers  of  this  simple  tale  were  intro- 
duced to  the  fair  child  in  deshabille.  They 
saw  her  on  Saturday  morning.  Little  girls, 
like  their  older  sisters,  are  at  their  best,  in 
point  of  appearance,  in  the  afternoon.  And 
on  the  particular  afternoon  when  Mary — no 
longer  the  tomboy  of  Ellen  Street,  but  a 
flower-girl — paid  her  a  visit,  Alice  was  gay,  as 
to  her  hair,  with  ribbons,  and  arrayed  in  stock- 
ings fully  as  white  as  her  conscience,  with  slip- 
pers to  match  both,  and  a  white  dress  set  off 
in  all  its  immaculateness  with  a  blue  sash.  A 
shining  bracelet  on  one  wrist  gave  the  child  the 
finishing  touch. 

"Why,  Mary,"  returned  Alice,  "there  is  no 
one  sick  that  I  know  of." 

"That's  too  bad,"  said  Mary,  with  genuine 
regret  in  her  voice.  "I  bought  these  oranges 
for  her.  You  see,  I  had  fifteen  cents  which 
some  lady  gave  me  for  going  on  an  errand  for 
her;  and  I  was  afraid  if  I  didn't  buy  the 
oranges  right  away  I  might  spend  the  money.'* 

Alice  stood  for  full  three  seconds  in  deep 
reflection. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  she  then  said,  "I'll  call 
up  Elizabeth  Reno.  She's  just  as  anxious  as 
we  are  to  have  a  sick  member.  Maybe  she's 
found  one." 

Then  Alice  took  up  the  receiver. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          61 

"Is  that  you,  Elizabeth?  Do  you  know  who 
this  is? — you  don't? — Well,  you  needn't  get 
sassy  about  it. — Hey? — What's  that? — Yes, 
this  is  Alice,  and  I  miss  you  so  much — the 
same  as  you  miss  me.  Say,  come  on  over. — 
Yes,  right  away. — Oho,  I'm  so  glad  you've  got 
your  white  slippers  on.  It's  too  bad  your  hair 
is  bobbed,  because  we  could  both  have  curls 
if  it  weren't. — Say,  Mary  Fitzgerald  is  here, 
and  she's  brought  along  a  bundle  of  oranges 
for  a  sick  girl;  and  we've  just  got  to  find  a  sick 
girl  before  those  oranges  spoil  or  get  eaten. — 
All  right,  Elizabeth,  come  right  over." 

When  ihe  eager  Elizabeth  arrived  she  was 
greeted  with  fervent  "halloas"  from  the  other 
two  members  of  the  Flower  Section. 

Together  they  went  over  the  membership 
list  of  the  Children  of  Mary.  It  was  a  great 
disappointment  to  them  that  every  girl  on  the 
roster  could  be  accounted  for  as  in  daily  at- 
tendance at  school. 

"Why,  just  think,"  exclaimed  Alice,  "there's 
that  skinny,  dough-faced  Annie  Morrison  who 
was  sick  more  than  half  of  last  year  with  am- 
monia and  newrology ;  and  this  year  she  hasn't 
missed  a  day." 

"It's  a  shame!"  observed  Elizabeth. 

"I  wished  she'd  put  it  off  till  this  year,"  re- 
marked the  Flower  of  Ellen  Street. 


62  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Say,"  Alice  went  on,  "maybe  Father  Car- 
ney knows  some  girl  who's  sick.  I  think  I'll 
telephone  him." 

"Maybe  he  wouldn't  like  it,"  Elizabeth  ob- 
jected. 

"But  isn't  it  our  duty?"  answered  Alice. 

"And,  besides,  I  don't  want  my  oranges  to 
spoil,"  observed  Mary. 

At  this  point  of  the  conversation  Alice,  hap- 
pening to  notice  something  in  the  attire  of 
Elizabeth  which  appealed  to  her  aesthetic 
sense,  proceeded  to  remark  upon  it,  whereupon 
the  three  young  ladies  forgot  for  full  ten  min- 
utes the  affairs  of  the  Sodality  in  the  absorbing 
question  concerning  what  they  were  to  wear 
on  the  following  Sunday.  The  conversation 
became  more  than  absorbing,  when,  in  a  happy 
moment,  Mary  Fitzgerald,  the  regenerate, 
suggested  that  the  Flower  Committee  adopt 
a  uniform.  The  Red  Cross  nurse  attire  was 
discussed,  and  finally  rejected  on  the  grounds 
that  the  Children  of  Mary  Sodality  ought  to 
have  something  different. 

They  took  up  the  question  of  hair-ribbons. 
Elizabeth,  somewhat  dark  of  complexion, 
came  out  strong  for  red ;  fair-haired  Alice,  for 
reasons  clear  to  every  girl,  stood  staunch  for 
blue.  The  conversation  reached  a  point  where 
Elizabeth,  risen  to  her  feet  and  with  eyes  flash- 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  63 

ing,  was  about  to  inform  her  dearest  friend  in 
the  world  that  she  would  never  speak  to  her 
again,  when  the  telephone  rang. 

Alice  took  up  the  receiver: 

"Halloa!— Oh,  is  it  you,  Mrs.  Reno?— 
What? — Catherine  has  gone  to  bed!" 

There  was  a  pause;  then — 

"All  right;  I'll  tell  Elizabeth  at  once. 
Good-by." 

Then  Alice  turned,  all  trace  of  the  late  vexa- 
tion gone  from  her  expressive  features. 

"Oh,  Elizabeth,  your  sister  Catherine  has 
took  sick  and  has  gone  to  bed  with  a  side-split- 
ting headache." 

At  the  announcement  Mary  Fitzgerald 
fairly  beamed  with  joy.  Elizabeth  was 
pleased,  too,  though  her  pleasure  was  some- 
what alloyed,  as  shown  by  an  air  of  perplexity 
and  a  wrinkled  brow. 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Mary,  "that  our  first  sick 
girl  to  be  visited  by  this  here  committee  is  a 
sister  of  one  of  the  flowers,  and  a  seventh- 
grade  girl  at  that." 

Then  as  one  man  up  rose  the  Flower  Sec- 
tion, and  arm  in  arm  fared  forth  into  the 
street. 

"Who's  sick?"  called  Johnny  O'Brien,  with 
his  usual  intense  interest  in  everybody  else's 
interest.  His  right  hand  was  swathed  in  ban- 


64  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

dages  to  the  size  of  a  pillow;  but  John  in  face 
was  as  serene  as  ever. 

Before  the  three  fragrant  flowers,  having 
vouchsafed  the  desired  information,  had 
crossed  the  street  and  progressed  the  fifty  feet 
or  so  which  stood  between  the  respective  houses 
of  the  O' Sheas  and  the  Renos,  everybody  on 
Pioneer  Street,  except  old  Mrs.  Boylan,  who 
was  stone  deaf,  were  discussing  the  fact  that 
Catherine  Reno  was  down  with  a  "side-split- 
ting" headache. 

Mary  Fitzpatrick,  indeed,  was  alarmed. 
Not  so  Elizabeth,  for  that  fair  flower  distinctly 
remembered  that  before  leaving  her  home  she 
had  informed  her  sister  Catherine  that  the 
Flower  Section  had  a  dozen  oranges  on  hand, 
and  were  going  to  get  together  to  see  whether 
they  could  not  find  some  sick  child  of  Mary 
upon  whom  to  lavish  them. 

Their  first  visit  of  mercy  was  a  success. 
Catherine  listened  to  their  prattle  with 
patience,  and  accepted  the  oranges,  after  Mary 
had  overcome  all  her  apparent  objections. 
During  the  visit  it  was  also  settled  that  the 
three  flowers  should  wear  in  their  official  work 
any  color  of  hair-ribbon  they  chose. 

Hard  upon  their  departure  Master  Johnny 
O'Brien,  with  that  whole-hearted  interest  he 
took  in  everything  connected  with  Pioneer 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  65 

Street,  engaged  Elizabeth  in  friendly  talk.  Tt 
was  easy  for  Johnny  to  get  out  of  the  unsus- 
pecting flower  every  detail  that  had  led  up  to 
Catherine's  sudden  illness.  All  this  within 
due  time — that  is,  within  the  next  five  minutes 
—Johnny  faithfully  retailed  to  his  boy  friends. 
Their  curiosity  was  aroused. 

After  supper  Johnny  visited  the  invalid  and 
talked  to  her  for  half  an  hour,  during  which 
time  he  watched  her  closely.  Then  he  bade 
her  a  friendly  adieu,  expressing  the  hope  that 
she  would  be  quite  well  in  the  morning ;  a  hope, 
by  the  way,  which  was  fully  realized. 

"Well,"  cried  Fred,  speaking  in  the  name  of 
every  boy  on  the  street  as  Johnny  came  out^ 
"is  she  really  sick?" 

All  waited  with  undisguised  interest  for 
Johnny's  reply. 

Johnny  paused,  raised  his  heroic  hand,  heroic 
in  size  and  in  history,  on  high,  and  answered: 

"You  can  search  me!" 

Whether  the  gifted  young  lady,  who  shared 
her  oranges  with  her  sister,  giving  her  one,  was 
really  ill  or  not  on  this  occasion  is  a  mystery 
which  no  one  has  as  yet  solved. 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  strange  conduct  of  Mr.  Corcoran,  and 
the  mysteries  attendant  upon  his  giving  up 
work  forever. 

To  do  justice  to  the  Flower  Section,  they 
showed  subsequently  great  zeal  and  did 
really  good  work  in  their  dealings  with  the 
sick  members  of  the  Children  of  Mary.  They 
were  lucky  in  having  before  their  eyes  an  excel- 
lent model,  Master  Bob  Ryan.  That  young 
gentleman  had  a  genius  for  dealing  with  peo- 
ple in  sorrow  and  distress.  In  a  few  weeks  he 
was  looked  upon  by  the  Corcoran  family  as 
one  of  themselves.  Every  evening  without 
fail  he  visited  Albert,  and  together  they  went 
over  the  next  day's  lessons  to  their  mutual 
benefit.  Bob  was  strong  in  English;  Albert 
in  mathematics. 

During  these  days  Bob  came  to  know  Mr. 
Corcoran  and  Angelo.  Mr.  Corcoran  was  a 
puzzle  to  the  boy.  He  was  a  dark  man,  with 
very  gentle,  dreamy,  black  eyes,  and  a  fierce 
moustache,  long,  blue-black,  and  curled  up- 
ward at  the  ends.  His  face,  in  other  words, 
was  a  contradiction — ferocious  below,  lamb- 
like above. 

66 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          67 

Mr.  Corcoran  in  his  own  household  seldom 
spoke.  His  thoughts  seemed  ever  to  be  far 
away.  Sometimes  Bob  wondered  whether  he 
really  knew  his  own  children  by  name.  At 
meals  he  occasionally  broke  into  speech;  and 
ever  he  spoke  of  a  day  soon  to  come  when  the 
family  would  leave  Ellen  Street  and  move  to 
Clifton. 

"I've  got  my  eye  on  a  dwelling  there,"  he 
said  one  day  in  Bob's  presence,  "which  is  worth 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  it's  going 
begging  for  forty  thousand.  I'm  going  to  buy 
that." 

Mrs.  Corcoran  smiled — almost  any  remark 
drew  a  smile  from  her — but  said  nothing.  The 
children  listened  with  sparkling  eyes.  They 
had  perfect  faith  in  their  father.  They  con- 
sidered him  to  be  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
men  alive. 

"I  say,  pa,"  Albert  objected,  "how  can  you 
pay  forty  thousand  for  a  house  on  a  salary  of 
one  hundred  and  forty  dollars  a  month?" 

Mr.  Corcoran's  eyes  put  on  a  far-away  look. 

"Forty  thousand  dollars  1"  he  cried.  "Ah, 
bah !  that's  nothing.  You  needn't  worry  about 
money,  children.  In  a  short  time  you'll  have 
more  than  you'll  know  what  to  do  with.  And 
my  salary — that's  nothing.  Very  soon  I  shall 
work  for  no  man." 


68          HIS  LUCKIEST  TEAR 

Then  Mr.  Corcoran,  forgetting  to  take  the 
quarter  of  pie  just  handed  him  by  his  wife, 
and  leaving  his  cup  of  tea  untouched,  arose 
and  departed  hastily  for  his  "den" — a  little 
cubby-hole  on  the  second  floor  at  the  head  of 
the  landing. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Angelo,  "what  father's 
got  up  his  sleeve." 

Mrs.  Corcoran  ceased  smiling  as  she  said, 
not  without  a  touch  of  sweetness  in  her  tone — 

"Angelo,  that  doesn't  sound  very  nice.  You 
are  speaking  of  your  father." 

"Beg  pardon,  mother;  we  do  get  careless 
the  way  we  talk.  What  I  should  have  said  is : 
'what  plan  my  father  has.'  He  certainly  has 
something  on  his  mind.  And  I  know  he's 
working  on  something." 

Bob  was  looking  earnestly  at  Mrs.  Cor- 
coran. That  good  woman  bent  her  head  low 
for  a  moment,  and  it  seemed  to  the  sharp-eyed 
boy  that  a  spasm  of  pain  passed  over  her  face. 
The  next  moment  she  raised  her  eyes  and 
smiled  brightly. 

"If  I  thought,  children,"  she  said,  "that 
wealth  would  make  you  better  and  happier, 
I'd  pray  for  it  every  day.  But  I  don't,  and 
so  I'm  content  to  say  just  'Give  us  this  day 
our  daily  bread.' ' 

"I'd  rather  pray  for  cakes,"  said  Rosie. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  69 

And  the  supper  party  then  broke  up  in 
riotous  laughter. 

As  Bob  helped  the  still  weak  Albert  up  the 
stairs  he  could  not  help  noticing  Mr.  Corcoran 
seated  before  a  table.  The  man  was  appar- 
ently checking  off  numbers.  Sheets  of  paper 
were  all  about  him,  on  all  o  j  theni  combina- 
tions of  numbers  and  letters. 

Two  hours  later  Bob,  leaving  for  the  nights 
saw  Mr.  Corcoran  once  more.  He  was  still 
engrossed  with  his  mysterious  work. 

So  had  it  been  every  night.  Mr.  Corcoran 
always  worked  with  the  door  open;  but  into 
that  den  no  one  but  himself  was  supposed  to 
enter.  From  the  time  that  he  entered  his  den 
there  was  perfect  quiet  in  the  house.  Singing 
or  loud  talking  was  absolutely  forbidden.  In- 
deed, for  the  last  four  or  five  weeks  Mrs.  Cor- 
coran had  not  been  permitted  to  run  her  sew- 
ing machine.  No  wonder  that  Bob  Ryan  was 
puzzled. 

Angelo  was  like  his  father  in  his  gift  for 
quick  figuring;  like  his  mother  in  energy  and 
sprightliness.  His  salary  had  been  raised 
twice  in  a  month.  He  was  now  getting  ten 
dollars  a  week,  and  there  was  promise  of  his 
soon  being  promoted  to  the  office  of  assistant 
bookkeeper,  with  a  substantial  increase.  And 
Angelo  was  working  for  it.  Every  night  he 


70  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

either  studied  at  home  or  went  to  take  instruct 
tions  from  his  private  tutor.  Seldom  did  he 
retire  until  midnight;  but  always  before  his 
father,  who,  intent  on  his  mysterious  occupa- 
tion, burned  the  midnight  oil  not  unfrequently 
into  the  first  flicker  of  the  dawn. 

To  Bob's  joy,  the  time  soon  came  when  Al- 
bert was  able  to  get  about ;  and  for  twelve  days 
before  his  return  to  school  he  transferred  his 
place  of  studies  from  his  proper  home  to  his 
new  friend's  delightful  room. 

At  ten  o'clock,  their  lessons  thoroughly  pre- 
pared, the  two  walked  arm  in  arm  as  far  as 
Little  Fourth  Street.  Arrived  at  that  ascent, 
it  was  Master  Bob's  custom  to  catch  Albert 
in  his  strong  arms  and  to  carry  him  up  to  the 
level. 

On  the  last  night  of  October  the  two  reached 
the  foot  of  the  street  that  was  steep. 

"Well,  Bob,"  said  Albert,  "you  needn't 
carry  me  to-night.  I  don't  feel  a  bit  tired; 
and  to-morrow  I  start  to  school." 

"Fine,"  said  Bob,  taking  his  friend's  arm. 
"Come  on,  now,  and  don't  be  afraid  to  lean  on 
me.  Oh,  but  the  boys  will  be  glad  when  you 
get  back.  They  all  say  that  as  soon  as  you 
start  in  I  won't  be  the  leader  any  more.  They 
say  you  can  beat  me  all  hollow;  and  I  believe 
them." 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          71 

"Well,  I  don't,"  returned  Albert.  "You've 
got  more  English  in  your  little  finger  than  I 
have  in  my  whole  head. — Halloa !  What's  the 
matter?  If  that  isn't  my  father  standing  on 
the  front  steps!  What's  happened  to  him 
and  his  den?  I  never  knew  him  out  of  it  at 
this  time  of  night  in  the  last  six  months." 

"Halloa,  boys!"  cried  Mr.  Corcoran,  mo- 
tioning for  them  to  come  near. 

"Good  evening,  sir,"  said  Bob. 

"Well,  boys,  everything  is  fixed.  I've  left 
my  position." 

Mr.  Corcoran's  eyes  were  shining.  His 
face  was  that  of  an  ecstatic.  The  heavy  lines 
under  his  eyes,  brought  on  by  want  of 
sleep,  had  disappeared.  He  looked  ten  years 
younger. 

"I've  been  working,"  continued  the  man, 
with  an  air  of  exaltation,  "for  nine  months 
without  intermission.  And  I've  got  it!" 

"Got  what,  pa?" 

"To-morrow,"  continued  the  father,  "I  take 
my  first  holiday  and  start  my  fortune." 

"Are  you  going  to  be  rich,  pa?" 

"I  am  rich."  Here  the  man  placed  his  hand 
over  his  coat  pocket.  "There's  over  one  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  in  value  here  right  now. 
We'll  move  to  Clifton  by  the  first  of  next 
week.  On  the  day  after  to-morrow  I  buy  the 


72  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

house  there.  And,  Angelo" — here  Mr.  Cor- 
coran paused  and  looked  at  his  large-eyed  son 

-"that  is — eh — Albert,  you'll  never  want 
money  as  long  as  you  live." 

Saying  this,  Mr.  Corcoran,  holding  his  hand 
tightly  over  his  pocket,  turned  and  walked 
into  the  house. 

"Good  gracious,  Bob,  what  do  you  make  of 
it?"  cried  Albert  after  a  prolonged  pause. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  answered  Bob. 

"Well,  Bob,  I  don't  either;  but  if  I  get  lots 
of  money  we're  partners." 

And  the  boys  shook  hands  for  the  night. 

It  was  nearing  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  following  day.  St.  Xavier  School  had 
been  dismissed.  Only  the  chosen  boys  of  the 
eighth  grade  had  remained.  Brother  Cyril 
was  explaining  to  these  alert  and  ambitious 
youths  the  thing  they  call  in  English  the  nom- 
inative absolute.  Very  soon  every  one  present 
grasped  the  explanation. 

The  boys  were  a  set  worth  studying.  There 
was  perfect  discipline  in  the  room.  And  yet 
many  a  man  would  have  said  that  there  was 
none  at  all.  For  the  young  students  were 
cheerful  to  a  striking  degree,  and  free  in  their 
remarks  to  the  teacher  and  to  one  another. 
There  appeared  to  be  no  rule  of  silence.  There 
was,  too,  no  little  good-natured  badinage. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          73 

And  yet  there  was  perfect  discipline ;  because 
Brother  Cyril  could  do  with  these  boys  what 
he  pleased. 

While  these  merry  youngsters  were  compos- 
ing out  of  hand  sentences  rich  in  nominative 
absolutes  and  hurling  them  into  one  another's 
teeth,  Brother  Cyril  raised  his  hand. 

"Take  out  your  paper,"  he  said. 

How  quickly  the  execution  followed  upon 
the  command ! 

"Now  write  seven  sentences,  each  one  with 
a  nominative  absolute ;  and  let  there  be  perfect 
quiet." 

For  five  minutes  the  scratching  of  pens  was 
the  only  sound ;  and  then — there  came  a  knock 
at  the  door. 

Brother  Cyril  opened  it  himself.  A  police- 
man was  standing  outside.  Of  the  twenty- 
four  boys  present  only  three  raised  their  eyes 
and  glimpsed  the  strange  visitor.  Brother 
Cyril  closed  himself  out,  and  for  several  min- 
utes more  the  only  sound  in  that  classroom 
continued  to  be  the  scratching  of  pens. 

When  Brother  Cyril  returned,  his  face  was 
quite  pale;  and  a  close  observer  would  have 
noticed  a  slight  quivering  of  the  lips. 

"Albert  Corcoran,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  want 
to  speak  to  you  for  a  moment." 


74  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

The  boy  arose  promptly  and  followed  his 
teacher  outside  the  classroom. 

"I'm  awful  sorry  for  you,  my  boy,"  said 
the  Brother  as  he  closed  the  door,  "but  there's 
bad  news." 

"Oh,  has  anything  happened  to  my 
mother?" 

"No,  she's  as  brave  a  woman  as  I've  ever 
met ;  and  the  bad  news  has  come  to  her  as  well 
as  to  you.  It's  your  father." 

"Oh,  Brother,  he  hasn't  done  anything 
wrong,  has  he?" 

The  poor  boy  was  thinking  of  his  father's 
strange  conduct.  In  spite  of  himself  his  im- 
agination at  once  grew  alive  with  vague  sus- 
picions. 

"No,  my  boy,  there  is  nothing  like  that, 
thank  God.  He  was  over  in  Kentucky  this 
afternoon  and  fell  unconscious  on  a  street  in 
Ludlow." 

"And — and — is  he  dead,  Brother?" 

"He  came  to  after  a  few  minutes,"  continued 
Brother  Cyril,  "and  gave  his  name  and  ad- 
dress. And  then  one  of  the  priests  over  there 
arrived  and  got  his  confession  and  anointed 
him,  when  he  became  unconscious  again.  But 
before  he  lost  his  senses  he  gave  the  priest  a 
message  for  your  mother  alone." 

"I'm  awful  glad  he  got  a  priest,"  said  the 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          75 

boy.  "You  see,  my  father's  been  so  busy  work- 
ing out  something  or  another  that  he's  been 
careless.  I'm  sure  he  didn't  mean  to  be. 
We've  all  been  praying  for  him — Oh,  you 
needn't  tell  me,  Brother;  I  know  he's  dead." 

Here  the  boy  broke  down. 

"You  must  be  brave,  Albert,"  continued  the 
Brother,  "for  the  sake  of  your  mother  and 
your  sisters." 

"I  will — I  will,"  raising  his  head  and  stand- 
ing erect.  The  next  moment  he  collapsed. 

"Bob,"  cried  Brother  Cyril,  holding  Albert 
in  one  arm  and  opening  the  door  of  the  eighth- 
grade  class  a  few  inches,  "come  this  way  at 
once." 

Bob  Ryan  showed  no  surprise.  He  simply 
took  Albert  in  his  sturdy  arms,  carried  him  to 
the  water  faucet  near  at  hand,  threw  a  few 
drops  of  water  on  the  deathly  pale  face,  and 
with  a  caressing  hand  rubbed  the  brow.  In 
the  meantime  Brother  Cyril  related  briefly  the 
story  of  Mr.  Corcoran's  sudden  death. 

"He  died  with  the  sacraments,  Albert," 
whispered  Bob  into  the  ear  of  Albert. 

Albert  opened  his  eyes. 

"I'm  sure,"  added  Bob,  "that  he  died  a  good 
death." 

"We've  all  been  praying  for  six  weeks  that 
he  might,"  whispered  Albert.  "The  girls  have 


76          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

been  going  to  communion  every  day,  and 
Angelo  went  when  he  could.  My  mother 
asked  us  to.  She  told  us  she  was  alarmed 
about  him.  I  believe  that  our  prayers  have 
been  heard." 

"Brother  Cyril,"  said  Bob,  'Til  take  Albert 
home." 

Two  days  later  the  funeral  took  place.  Mrs. 
Corcoran  had  contrived  to  keep  up  a  small  in- 
surance policy  on  her  husband's  life,  enough 
to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  obsequies.  She  had 
received  the  message  to  her  from  the  priest. 
But  of  that  message  she  said  nothing.  Neither 
did  she  tell  any  one  that,  although  her  husband 
had  received  his  full  salary  the  day  before  his 
death,  not  one  cent  of  it  ever  reached  her  hands 
or  was  ever  accounted  for  in  any  way  soever. 


CHAPTER  VII 

In  which  Bob  starts  something  really  worth 
while. 

AY,  Bob,"  said  Albert,  bursting  into  Bob's 
room  without  the  formality  of  knocking, 
"I've  got  good  news." 

"Good!    What  is  it?" 

"Angelo's  been  promoted.  He's  simply  a 
wonder  at  figuring,  like  my  poor  father  we 
buried  two  weeks  ago,  and  they've  made  him 
assistant  bookkeeper  at  sixty  dollars  a  month." 

"Just  think!"  exclaimed  Bob,  "and  he  fin- 
ished from  our  business  class  only  a  little  over 
four  months  ago." 

"Do  you  know  what  that  means  to  us,  Bob?" 
continued  Albert,  throwing  himself  into  a 
chair. 

"What?" 

"Why,  it  means  just  this:  My  mother 
doesn't  have  to  worry  about  the  rent  or  the 
bills  any  more.  Sixty  dollars!  Why,  she 
never  had  that  much  money  each  month  since 
I  can  remember.  Sixty  dollars  will  go  as  far 
with  her  as  a  hundred  with  most  women.  She 
wastes  nothing.  I've  often  wondered  what 

became  of  my  father's  salary." 

77 


78  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Bob,  "that  fathers  are 
queer  propositions?  At  least,  that's  the  way 
it  seems  to  me.  Mine  was  funnier  than  yours." 

"He  was?" 

"I  should  say.  He  wasn't  very  kind,  and 
he  hardly  ever  spoke  to  me ;  and,  while  he  had 
lots  of  money,  he  gave  me  very  little,  and  last 
summer  he  took  me  out  into  a  woods,  and  told 
me  to  clear  out,  and  to  change — oh,  I  came 
near  forgetting!  I'd  like  to  tell  you  all  about 
him,  Albert;  but  I  don't  think  I've  a  right  to. 
Anyhow,  I  left  him  and  he  left  me,  and  I 
don't  know  what's  become  of  him  nor  why  he 
acted  the  way  he  did;  and  the  whole  thing's  a 
mystery  that's  bothering  me  and  a  lot  of  my 
friends." 

"And  you're  worse  off  than  I  am,  Bob — 
you  have  no  mother." 

Bob  had  the  reticence  of  the  normal  Ameri- 
can boy.  But,  had  he  spoken  what  he  felt,  he 
would  have  told  Albert  that  whenever  he  met 
Mrs.  Corcoran  the  pain  of  longing  for  a  loving 
mother,  a  mother  like  Albert's,  almost  brought 
the  tears  to  his  eyes. 

"Anyhow,"  he  said,  "I've  no  cause  to  whine. 
I've  got  the  best  friends  any  boy  could  wish 
to  have,  including  your  mother,  Albert.  I've 
friends  in  our  class,  and  friends  on  our  street, 
and  friends  scattered  along  the  banks  of  the 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  79 

Mississippi.  A  fellow  can't  expect  to  have 
everything.  And  Tom  Temple  and  the 
Reades  are  on  the  lookout  to  find  what's  be- 
come of  my  father  and  why  he  sent  me  adrift." 

"We're  awfully  happy  about  our  brother's 
raise,"  Albert  went  on,  "and  we've  been  think- 
ing, my  mother  and  sisters  and  I,  what  we 
ought  to  do." 

"Well,  did  you  settle  it?" 

"Not  entirely,  Bob.  But  one  thing  we  ve 
fixed  on:  we're  going  to  receive  communion 
every  day,  in  thanksgiving." 

Suddenly  Bob's  eyes  grew  bright. 

"By  George,  Albert,"  he  exclaimed,  "you've 
given  me  an  idea!  You  go  to  communion 
every  day;  so  do  I,  at  the  five-thirty  Mass  I 
serve.  Then  there's  a  lot  of  the  acolytes  who 
go  daily,  too.  Why  can't  we  get  up  a  Com- 
munion Section  in  our  Sodality,  the  same  as 
the  young  ladies?" 

"How  do  you  mean,  Bob?" 

"Just  this.  Let's  try  to  get  every  boy  of  the 
Sodality  in  it.  Of  course  we  can't  get  all  to 
go  daily ;  but  some  can  go  twice  a  week,  others 
three  times,  and  almost  any  boy  can  go  at  least 
once.  If  they  do  that  much  they  can  be  mem- 
bers." 

"That  looks  good  to  me,"  said  Albert. 

"It  will  stop  a  whole  lot  of  sin,"  continued 


80          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

Bob.  "A  boy  who  receives  once  a  week  isn't 
likely  to  go  wrong.  You  put  my  name  down, 
and  I'll  get  all  the  boys  on  this  street  to  go  in 
on  it,  and  I'll  tell  Brother  Crellin,  the  sacris- 
tan, to-morrow  to  get  the  altar  boys  inter- 
ested." 

"But  why  don't  you  get  it  up  yourself, 
Bob?" 

"Who,  me?  That's  your  little  offering  of 
gratitude.  You  can  do  it;  and  I  know  you'll 
like  to  do  it." 

"Yes;  but  you'd  like  to  do  it,  too." 

"But  I'm  the  Sick  Committee.  I've  six 
boys  on  hand  now.  And  another's  at  the  Betts 
Street  Hospital.  They  take  up  pretty  much 
all  of  my  spare  time." 

"All  right,  Bob;  it's  a  go.  I'm  sure,  too, 
that  Father  Reardon  will  like  it." 

"Of  course  he  will,"  said  Bob.  "I  heard  him 
talking  the  other  day  about  our  eighth-grade 
boys.  He  said  that  most  of  them  were  just  at 
the  dangerous  age,  when  boys  begin  to  get  bad 
habits  if  they're  not  mighty  careful.  And  then 
he  said  something  I  don't  intend  to  forget." 

"What  was  it?" 

"He  said  that  there  were  two  things  which 
were  dead  sure  to  keep  Sodality  boys  of  four- 
teen and  fifteen  out  of  mortal  sin;  and  that 
Brother  Cyril  had  settled  one  of  them  for  his 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  81 

boys,  and  that  he,  the  director  of  the  Sodality, 
ought  to  contrive  to  bring  about  the  other." 

"What  two  things,  Bob?" 

"One  was  to  keep  the  boys  busy — keep  'em 
playing  and  studying  hard,  with  no  time  for 
loafing.  And  Brother  Cyril  has  attended  to 
that." 

"He  certainly  has,"  said  Albert. 

"And  the  other  things,"  went  on  Bob,  with 
an  enthusiasm  which  showed  on  every  feature, 
"is  frequent,  and,  if  possible,  daily  communion. 
And  he  said  that  if  he  could  get  the  boys  to  do- 
ing that  he'd  be  perfectly  happy." 

"Say,  Bob,  let's  surprise  him.  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  do:  I'll  get  after  these  boys  myself 
— all  but  the  bunch  you  said  you'd  attend  to; 
and  I'll  give  every  minute  of  my  spare  time  to 
seeing  them;  and  when  I've  got  the  list  made 
out  I'll  bring  it  to  Father  Reardon." 

"Fine,"  cried  Bob.  "It  ought  to  be  fixed 
up  inside  of  ten  days." 

"And  we'll  put  one  over  on  the  Children 
of  Mary,"  added  Albert  boyishly. 

I  am  afraid  Albert  reckoned  without  his 
host.  Johnny  O'Brien  got  wind  of  the  affair 
early  the  next  day.  Hot  with  the  news,  he 
reported  it  to  Fred  O'Shea,  who  at  once  de- 
clared that  he'd  join  and  go  to  communion  at 
least  three  times  a  week — which  to  Master 


82  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

Fred  was  a  somewhat  radical  change.  No 
one  appreciated  this  fact  more  than  himself. 
In  fact,  he  began  to  put  on  airs;  and  boasted 
at  table  of  the  great  Communion  Section. 

Leaving  her  breakfast  unfinished,  the  fair 
and  eager  Alice  telephoned  her  dearest  friend 
in  the  world,  Elizabeth  Reno,  repeating  her 
brother's  remarks  almost  verbatim.  Not  en- 
tirely, however.  Elizabeth  had  some  trouble 
in  understanding  that  the  St.  Aloysius  Sodal- 
ity was  getting  up  a  "Eucalyptic"  Section. 

"And,"  added  Alice,  "I  think  we  ought  to 
do  something." 

"Of  course  we  ought,"  came  Elizabeth's  de- 
cided tones  through  the  receiver,  "only  we've 
got  to  get  another  name.  Eucalyptic  Section 
sounds  funny;  and  the  girls  in  the  fifth  grade 
won't  be  able  to  pronounce  it." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  what  we  call  it,"  answered 
Alice  sweetly.  "We  ought  to  get  another 
name  anyhow." 

"Listen,  Alice,"  came  the  voice  of  the  dear- 
est friend.  "Just  hold  the  phone  for  a  second. 
Catherine's  here,  and  she  won't  let  me  talk  to 
you  till  I  tell  her  all  about  it." 

There  was  a  silence  for  several  minutes. 
Then- 

"Oh,  Alice!  My  sister  thinks  it's  lovely; 
and  she  got  just  the  beautifullest  name;  and 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  83 

she's  made  it  up  out  of  her  own  head.  She 
says  we  ought  to  call  it  'The  Ladies  of  the 
Blessed  Sacrament.' ' 

Alice  whooped  musically  into  the  telephone. 

"And,  Alice,  listen!  She  says  she'll  work  it 
up  herself  among  the  girls,  the  same  as  that 
Albert  Corcoran  among  the  boys." 

"I  didn't  think  she'd  be  so  pious,"  Alice  re- 
marked, with  that  frankness  so  often  associated 
with  tender  years. 

"Neither  did  I,"  answered  the  dearest 
friend;  "and  I  really  don't  know  what  to  make 
of  it." 

The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  Miss  Cath- 
erine Reno  had  lost  considerable  prestige  since 
her  late  severe  but  short-lived  headache.  One 
member  of  the  class  had  asked  her  whether  the 
prospect  of  oranges  could  bring  on  a  headache 
and  then  cure  it.  Others  had  made  equally 
unfeeling  remarks.  But  the  boys  on  the  street 
Were  worse.  They  were  always  asking  her 
about  her  precious  health.  And  when  doing 
so  they  were  far  too  elaborate  in  their  manner. 
Catherine,  therefore,  bearing  these  taunts 
meekly,  was  eagerly  desirous  to  rehabilitat" 
herself.  And  now  that  the  opportunity  was 
thrust  upon  her  she  embraced  it. 

Within  ten  days  both  promoters  had  fin- 
ished their  work;  and  both  presented  them- 


84  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

selves  to  their  respective  directors.  The 
Eucharistic  Section  and  the  Ladies  of  the 
Blessed  Sacrament  were  adopted  with  enthu- 
siasm, and  the  two  Sodalities  became  in  con- 
sequence more  powerful  for  good  than  ever. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  there  were  few 
daily  communicants  on  Pioneer  Street.  Alice 
and  her  dearest  friend  agreed  to  go  six  times 
a  week.  But  to  get  up  early  Saturday  morn- 
ing! That  was  asking  too  much. 

To  the  admiration  of  all  that  knew  her, 
Catherine  Reno  was  the  shining  exception. 
She  arose  on  Saturday  at  six  o'clock.  The 
children  of  the  square  decided,  in  the  language 
of  Alice  O'Shea,  that  Catherine  was  "dread- 
fully pious."  Johnny  O'Brien,  however,  had 
his  doubts. 

"Is  she  doing  penance  for  playing  possum?" 
he  asked  himself,  "or  is  she  really  pious?  Any- 
how, it's  a  clear  case  of  conversion." 

But  the  model  child,  who,  the  tradition  says, 
devoured  eleven  oranges  at  one  sitting,  giving 
the  twelfth  to  her  sister,  kept  her  own  counsel. 
Even  to  this  day  wild  horses  can  not  drag  from 
her  any  further  information  concerning  her 
"side-splitting"  headache. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

In  which  the  author  takes  pleasure  in  intro- 
ducing the  Xaverian  Acolytes  engaged  in  se» 
cret  service. 

Y  the  way,  Brother  Crellin,  did  you  hear 
of    the    latest    from    the    Children   of 
Mary?"  asked  Charles  Bryan. 

The  two  were  in  the  acolytes'  sacristy.  Eve- 
ning devotions  for  the  first  Friday  in  Decem- 
ber were  just  over.  The  speaker,  Charles 
Bryan,  was  the  oldest  member  of  the  Xaverian 
Acolytes,  a  society  lately  organized  by  Brother 
Crellin  and  in  its  first  fervor.  It  was  made 
up  of  picked  young  men  of  St.  Xavier  Parish. 
They  were,  all  of  them,  breadwinners,  the 
youngest  being  eighteen  years  of  age.  It  was 
their  delight,  besides  serving  the  regular 
Masses  when  called  upon,  to  take  part  in  the 
more  solemn  ecclesiastical  services.  Charles 
Bryan,  nearly  thirty  years  of  age,  was  one  of 
the  model  young  men  of  the  Sixth  Street  Hill. 
Like  Longfellow's  blacksmith,  he  looked  the 
whole  world  in  the  face,  for  he  feared  not  any 
man.  He  was  at  once  kind  and  brave.  He 
had  no  human  respect ;  and  he  was  deeply  reli- 
gious. Every  morning  he  served  the  half- 

85 


86          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

past-five  o'clock  Mass  at  the  main  altar.  There 
were  twenty-one  members  in  the  Junior  Aco- 
lythical ;  and  they  were  all  clean-living,  eager, 
earnest  young  men. 

"No.    Have  they  started  a  new  section?" 

"They  wanted  to;  but  they've  got  Father 
Carney  so  puzzled  that  he  doesn't  quite  know 
what  to  do." 

"For  that  matter,"  observed  the  Brother 
Sacristan,  "they've  had  him  on  the  run  ever 
since  Catherine  Reno  started  the  Communion 
Section.  You  see,  Father  Carney  made  her 
an  officer  at  once,  the  Grand  Secretary  of  the 
Ladies  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament;  and  so  the 
idea  spread  among  the  Children  of  Mary  that 
everybody  who  got  up  a  new  section  would 
step  right  into  office,  and  no  questions  asked. 
Within  a  week  six  different  girls  came  to  him, 
each  with  a  section  thought  up  out  of  her  own 
head.  One  of  them  proposed  a  section  the 
members  of  which  should  dress  in  black  for  the 
souls  in  purgatory ;  a  girl  from  the  fifth  grade 
brought  in  a  fist  of  twenty  from  her  class  who 
declared  themselves  willing  to  visit  public 
charitable  institutions,  including  the  jail  and 
the  workhouse.  Poor  Father  Carney  had  no 
end  of  trouble  in  trying  to  combine  in  one  act 
squelching  and  encouraging  them." 

Charles  laughed. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  87 

"Well,  it's  the  fifth  grade  again.  Those 
little  girls  of  ten  and  eleven  are,  with  scarcely 
an  exception,  little  angels.  And  I  happen  to 
know  that  several  of  them  don't  get  their  an- 
gelic qualities  from  home  either.  It's  the 
school;  it's  the  Sisters.  Many  of  them  are 
good  in  spite  of  their  home  life.  Anyhow,  I 
happened  to  call  in  to  see  Father  Carney  the 
day  before  yesterday  on  my  way  home  from 
work.  He  was  seated  before  his  desk  with  a 
sheet  of  paper  before  him,  and  rubbing  his 
cheek  with  his  hand. 

*  'Look  at  this,  Charlie,'  he  said,  handing 
me  the  paper.  I  glanced  over  the  page.  It 
had  simply  the  names  of  forty-three  girls.  I 
asked  him  what  it  was;  and  he  told  me  that 
they  were  the  names  of  forty-three  out  of  the 
fifty-one  girls  of  the  fifth  grade,  and  that  it 
was  intended  by  the  promoter,  Miss  Elizabeth 
Marie  Lynam,  to  be  the  nucleus  of  a  vocation 
section." 

"What's  that?"  cried  the  sacristan,  drawing 
a  deep  breath. 

"A  vocation  section!  Every  girl  on  that 
list  put  her  name  down  to  be  a  nun!" 

The  Brother  giggled. 

"I  laughed  just  the  same  as  you  did, 
Brother,  when  Father  Carney  told  me  what 
it  meant.  But  he  brought  me  up  with  a  jerk. 


88          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

'It's  no  laughing  matter,'  said  he.  'Just  look 
closely  at  that  list.  I  know  every  girl  on  it. 
Out  of  the  forty-three  signers  there  are  ten 
who  would  sign  anything.  That  leaves  thirty- 
three.  Well,  out  of  those  thirty-three  there 
are  four,  or  at  most  six,  who  under  no  con- 
ceivable conditions  could  embrace  the  religious 
life.  That  leaves  twenty-seven.'  Think  of  it, 
Brother  Crellin!  Twenty-seven  pure  young 
hearts  turning  so  sweetly,  so  innocently  to 
God !  Every  one  of  them  has  the  makings  of 
a  spouse  of  Christ.  Just  now  they  are  fragrant, 
tender  flowers  in  the  garden  of  God." 

"So,"  put  in  Brother  Crellin,  "he's  going 
to  start  a  vocation  section?" 

"No;  he's  not." 

"Why  not?" 

"He  says  he  intends  to  spend  a  year  or  two 
longer  in  St.  Xavier's.  He's  afraid  of  their 
parents." 

"Oh,  go  on!    He's  not  afraid." 

"I  don't  think  he  is  myself;  but  he  said  he's 
afraid  of  his  life  of  angry  mothers.  And  be- 
sides, he  said  that  such  a  section  might  savor 
of  novelty.  He  also  said  that,  looking  at  that 
list  of  innocents,  and  thinking  of  what  most  of 
them  would  be  in  six  years  or  so,  it  brought  the 
tears  to  his  eyes." 

"I  think  I  know  how  he  feels,"  said  the 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          89 

Brother.  "He's  had  the  school  now  for  over 
fourteen  years;  and  he  knows." 

"I  think  I  understand  it  myself,  Brother. 
These  little  girls  in  the  fifth  grade  are,  most 
of  them,  pure  as  angels.  Their  hearts  turn  to 
God  naturally.  The  church,  the  school,  the 
Sisters  who  teach  them,  offset  the  dangers  of 
the  world.  They  are  little  angels.  But  just 
as  soon  as  they  are  fourteen  or  fifteen  out  they 
go  to  work.  Most  of  'em  don't  have  to 
go  to  work,  but  their  parents  want  the 
extra  money;  and  so  out  they  go  into  the 
world  before  their  character  is  formed,  and 
in  six  months  their  vocation,  if  they  ever  had 
any,  is  killed." 

"That's  so,"  said  the  Brother.  "A  girl  at 
fifteen  is  no  longer  a  child,  and  not  yet  a 
woman.  She  lacks  the  safeguards  of  both, 
and  is  at  the  dangerous  age." 

"It's  simply  shocking  to  see  how  quickly 
they  change,"  continued  Charles.  "They  were 
sensible  at  eleven;  at  sixteen  they  are  absolute 
geese.  They  paint  and  fix  themselves  up  in  a 
way  that  shows  they  have  the  taste  of  a  Hot- 
tentot." 

"Oh,  I  say,  Charles;  you're  too  hard  on 
them.  There  are  plenty  of  them  who  don't 
turn  out  that  way  at  all." 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  talking  of  the  Sodality  girls 


90  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

—not  of  those  who  stick  to  the  Sodality  when 
they  go  to  work.  No  girl  can  have  real  devo- 
tion to  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  live  like  a  fool. 
The  Sodalists  are  all  right.  It's  those  who 
leave  school  and  Sodality  both." 

"I  wonder  what  their  parents — especially 
their  mothers — are  thinking  of,"  said  the 
Brother.  "They  ought  to  know  what  the 
Sodality  means  to  their  children.  Why,  in 
this  down-town  district  it  means  every- 
thing/' 

"If  they  don't  know  that,"  said  Charles, 
"it's  because  they  haven't  enough  sense  to  come 
in  out  of  the  rain  when  it's  raining." 

"I've  been  in  other  parishes,"  continued  the 
Brother,  looking  through  his  glasses  upon  some 
invisible  audience,  "where  the  young  men  and 
the  young  women  are  either  good  or  fairly 
good.  But  here  it's  different.  They're  either 
very  good  or  downright  bad." 

"That's  about  it." 

"In  a  place  like  this,"  continued  the  Brother, 
"where  our  young  people  are  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  every  indecent  show-house  and  of 
the  worst  class  of  pool-rooms  and  of  every- 
thing that  leads  to  the  primrose  way,  they've 
got  to  be  mighty  careful.  If  they  are,  they 
are  leading  strong  and  saintly  lives.  But  if 
they  are  not  careful,  they  become  as  pagan 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  91 

almost  as  their  surroundings.  And  that's  the 
reason  our  parish  is  made  up  of  saints  and 
sinners." 

"It's  enough  to  discourage  Father  Carney, 
isn't  it,  Brother?" 

"No,  Charles.  He's  not  discouraged  at  all. 
He  holds  this :  The  growing  children  around 
here  are  exposed  to  dreadful  temptations. 
Also,  a  number  of  them  have  careless  or  igno- 
rant parents.  Lots  of  them  really  do  not 
seem  to  have  a  fair  chance.  Well,  God,  he 
holds,  takes  all  that  into  account.  They 
haven't  the  chance  of  the  average  Christian. 
They  have  poverty,  and  the  danger  of  drink, 
and  the  danger  of  bad  company,  and  no  end 
of  temptations.  God  fails  to  give  them  many 
things;  but  He  makes  it  up  by  giving  them 
one  thing — a  gift  they  received  at  the  bap- 
tismal font,  a  gift  cultivated  in  their  Catholic 
training  at  school;  and  so  when  they've  lost 
everything  else  that  gift  remains,  and  will  in 
the  end  most  probably  save  their  souls." 

"What  gift  is  that,  Brother?" 

"The  gift  that  the  world  laughs  at  and 
despises — the  gift  of  Catholic  faith.  At  the 
last,  faith  means  everything,  provided  only 
they  get  the  chance  of  repentance.  And  God 
is  good.  He  will  give  it  to  them." 

Charles  was  about  to  continue  the  conversa- 


92  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

tion,  when  Bob  Ryan  suddenly  entered,  deep 
perplexity  upon  his  face. 

"Halloa,  Bob,"  said  Charles,  "where  have 
you  left  your  smile?  At  the  dry  cleaner's?" 

Charles  and  Bob,  serving  in  the  church  at 
the  same  hour  every  morning,  were  already 
fast  friends. 

"Good  evening,  Brother.  Halloa,  Charlie; 
I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  here;  but  I'm 
mighty  glad  you  are,  because  I  want  your  ad- 
vice, too,  as  well  as  Brother  Crellin's.  I'm  in 
a  peck  of  trouble." 

"You  are!"  from  both. 

"Yes,  I  am.    You  know  Angelo  Corcoran?" 

"He's  a  Xaverian  Acolyte!"  said  Charles, 
in  a  manner  which  indicated  that  nothing  more 
in  the  way  of  encomium  need  be  said. 

"Well,  since  his  father's  death  he's  been 
supporting  the  whole  family.  He's  getting 
sixty  a  month." 

"As  nice  a  family  as  there  is  in  our  parish," 
commented  the  Brother. 

"Don't  I  know  it?"  cried  Bob.  "I  feel  just 
as  though  I  belonged  to  that  family.  Albert 
and  I  are  partners,  we  study  and  read  to- 
gether. And  Mrs.  Corcoran  is  so  good  to  me, 
always  thinking  up  some  kindness  for  me. 
She's " 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  93 

"But  what  about  Angelo?"  interrupted  the 
Brother. 

"Oh,  he's  been  burning  the  candle  at  both 
ends.  He's  been  killing  himself  with  work 
and  study;  and  now  he's  on  the  verge  of  a 
breakdown." 

Charles  Bryan  and  Brother  Crellin  became 
as  grave  as  Bob. 

"Does  that  mean  he'll  have  to  stop  work?" 
asked  the  Brother. 

"It  means  that  he'll  drag  along  a  little 
longer,"  returned  Bob,  "three  or  four  or  five 
weeks,  and  then  collapse;  or  it  means  that  if 
he  stops  right  now  and  takes  the  proper  treat- 
ment for  about  ten  weeks  he'll  be  all  right." 

"Who  told  you  that?"  asked  the  Brother. 

"Young  Doctor  Keane.  He's  a  great  friend 
of  mine.  I  got  to  know  him  through  one  of 
our  sick  boys  he  was  attending.  The  doctor 
wants  him  to  go  to  a  hospital  for  ten  weeks 
and  he'll  take  care  of  him  free." 

"Fine,"  said  Charles.    "That  settles  it." 

"I  wish  it  did;  but  it  doesn't,"  returned  Bob. 

"We  can  get  him  into  a  ward  at  the  Good 
Samaritan,  I  think,"  argued  Charles. 

"Oh,  that  part's  all  right,  too.  I've  seen 
Sister  Regina  myself,  and  she  says  she'll  give 
him  a  special  room,  all  to  himself,  and  the  best 
of  nursing  and  care." 


94  HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Well,  then,  I  should  say  that  settles  it," 
said  Charles. 

"No,  it  doesn't,  Charlie.  Sister  Regina, 
when  I  began  to  thank  her,  stopped  me  short. 
She  said  I  needn't  thank  her,  because  a  kind 
woman,  with  a  sad,  sweet  face — those  were 
her  words — from  Hamilton  had  visited  her  a 
few  weeks  ago,  and  told  her  that  if  any  de- 
serving poor  boy  needed  a  room  and  care  at 
the  hospital  the  Sister  might  take  him,  and  she 
would  foot  the  bill." 

"Well,  I  declare,"  said  the  Brother. 

"Do  you  know  her,  Brother?"  asked  Charles. 

"I  suspect  I  do,  Charles.  There's  a  woman 
dressed  in  black— 

"That's  right,"  interrupted  Bob,  "she's  in 
mourning.  I  remember  the  Sister  said  so." 

"And  she  has  the  saddest  and  sweetest  of 
faces,"  continued  the  Brother.  "She  comes 
to  our  church  every  month  or  so,  and  she  al- 
ways gives  me  ten  dollars  to  spend  on  clothes 
and  shoes  for  any  poor  altar  boys.  I  know 
she  doesn't  belong  to  Cincinnati." 

"I  hope,"  said  Bob  fervently,  "that  I'll  see 
her  some  day.  But,"  he  went  on,  "I'm  still  in 
a  hole  and  can't  see  how  I'm  to  climb  out.  Do 
you  think  Angelo  would  stop  work  and  lie 
down  for  ten  weeks,  with  his  mother  and 
brother  and  three  sisters  dependent  upon  him  ? 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  95 

I  should  say  not!  He's  too  game.  And  be- 
sides, he  hasn't  the  least  idea  that  he's  on  the 
brink  of  a  breakdown.  He  feels  sure  that  he'll 
be  all  right  in  a  few  weeks." 

All  three  became  silent. 

"Couldn't  Father  Reardon  persuade  him 
to  go?"  asked  Charles  presently. 

"Maybe  he  could,"  answered  Bob;  "but  even 
if  he  did,  that  wouldn't  settle  the  matter." 

"Of  course  it  wouldn't,"  put  in  Brother 
Crellin  promptly.  "In  the  meantime  what's 
to  become  of  the  family?  They  can't  live  on 
air." 

"That's  just  it,  Brother,"  said  Bob.  "I 
happen  to  know  that  they're  just  out  of  debt 
at  last.  It  was  only  three  days  ago  that  Mrs. 
Corcoran  paid  all  the  bills  due  since  her  hus- 
band's death;  and  she  was  so  happy  about  it. 
She  said  that  for  the  first  time  in  ever  so  long 
she  could  breathe  freely.  But  in  paying  those 
debts  she  put  out  every  cent  they  had.  If 
Angelo  were  to  stop  working  next  Saturday 
she  would  have  to  carry  her  family  for  ten 
weeks  on  fifteen  dollars." 

"But  couldn't  Mrs.  Corcoran  get  some 
work?"  asked  Charlie.  "She's  young  and  ac- 
tive, and  is  a  wonderful  cook,  and  she  can  use 
a  needle  handily." 


96          HIS  LUCKIEST  TEAR 

"Who's  going  to  take  care  of  the  home  and 
the  children?"  objected  Bob. 

"I  don't  like  that  scheme,  Charlie,"  said 
Brother  Crellin.  "As  the  old  song  says, 
'What  is  home  without  a  mother.'  From  what 
I've  noticed  in  this  parish,  I  feel  free  to  say 
that  a  lot  of  children,  with  their  mothers  work- 
ing out  by  the  day,  are  worse  off  than  if  they 
were  in  an  orphan  asylum.  Of  course,  Mrs. 
Corcoran  could  do  some  sewing  at  home, 
and  help  out  that  way;  but,  first  of  all,  the 
money  she  earned  wouldn't  be  near  enough, 
even  if  she  got  plenty  of  work ;  and,  secondly, 
I  doubt  whether  she'd  get  enough  just  now 
to  keep  her  going  as  much  as  two  hours  a 
day." 

"If  we  could  only  put  Angelo  in  the  hos- 
pital for  ten  weeks  and  keep  his  salary  going 
on  just  the  same,"  said  Bob,  his  chin  cupped 
in  his  right  hand  and  his  left  supporting  the 
elbow,  "there  would  be  no  trouble  at  all.  Gee! 
I  wish  I  were  rich ;  I'd  pay  it  myself.  Yester- 
day I  got  a  letter  from  my  friend  Tom  Tem- 
ple. He  sent  me  a  check  for  thirty  dollars, 
and  told  me  to  use  it  buying  Christmas  pres- 
ents for  my  friends.  I'm  sure  he  wouldn't 
mind  my  using  it  for  Angelo;  but  that  would 
pay  for  just  two  weeks." 

Charlie    and    Brother    Crellin    exchanged 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          97 

glances  of  wonder,  which  Bob,  chin  in  hand 
and  deeply  absorbed,  failed  to  perceive. 

"That  gives  me  an  idea,"  Brother  Crellin 
presently  observed.  "Most  of  our  people  are 
poor;  but,  according  to  their  means,  there  are 
no  more  generous  people  in  the  country.  Take, 
for  instance,  those  young  ladies  of  the  So- 
dality. They  are  charitable  to  a  fault.  If 
Father  Carney  calls  up  fifteen  of  them,  and 
tells  them  about  the  Corcoran  family  case, 
and  asks  each  to  contribute  one  dollar  a  week 
for  ten  weeks " 

Brother  Crellin  left  his  sentence  unfinished, 
in  obedience  to  a  protesting  gesture  from 
Charlie  Bryan. 

"No,  you  don't,  Brother,"  cried  Charlie,  hi? 
face  lighted  up  with  animation.  "The  young 
ladies  are  all  right;  but  we  mustn't  throw 
everything  on  them.  Angelo  is  a  Xaverian 
Acolyte.  Why  can't  the  Xaverian  Acolytes 
take  this  thing  up  and  see  it  through?" 

"And  leave  me  out!"  exclaimed  Bob  rue* 
fully. 

"We'll  count  you  in  as  an  honorary  mem- 
ber, Bob ;  but  we  can  get  together  fifteen  dol- 
lars a  week,  I  think." 

"Hold  on,"  interrupted  Brother  Crellin, 
looking  both  gratified  and  troubled.  "We're 
not  professional  charity  workers;  we're  not 


98  HIS  LUCKIEST  TEAR 

ranged    under   the    banner    of    a    'statistical 
Christ.'  " 

"What's  that?"  asked  Bob. 

"How?"  queried  Charlie. 

"It's  possible,"  continued  the  Brother,  "to 
be  charitable  and  humane  at  the  same  time. 
Many  charity  workers  don't  know  that;  but 
it's  so.  Would  it  be  the  right  thing,  boys,  for 
everybody  in  the  parish  to  know  that  Mrs. 
Corcoran,  who  is  a  woman  with  self-respect, 
and  her  family  are  objects  of  public  charity?" 

"I  should  say  notl"  declared  Bob  emphati- 
cally. 

"Of  course,"  said  Charlie,  "we  could  keep 
it  quiet  among  the  boys." 

"Twenty-one  in  number,"  stated  the  Brother 
Sacristan.  "That's  far  too  many.  Besides, 
several  of  them  are  almost  the  sole  support  of 
their  own  mothers,  and  several  are  drawing 
very  low  salaries." 

"That's  so,"  assented  Charlie.  "And  be- 
sides, there  might  be  two  or  three  who  couldn't 
keep  a  secret." 

Charlie  paused  for  a  moment,  then  added: 
"Oh,  I've  got  it!  We'll  pick  out  six  of  them 
besides  myself,  and  put  them  under  secrecy. 
I  can  pick  six  that  are  absolute  clams  when  it 
comes  to  keeping  a  secret.  Then  we'll  each 
chip  in  two  dollars  a  week,  and  Bob  one  dol- 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR  99 

lar;  that  makes  fifteen.  I'm  sure  with  a 
little  sacrifice  we  can  all  keep  that  up  for  ten 
weeks." 

"That  isn't  fair,"  protested  Bob.  "One  dol- 
lar! Why,  I've  thirty  dollars.  Put  me  down 
for  three." 

Meanwhile  Brother  Crellin  had  been  going 
over  the  membership  list  of  the  Xaverian 
Acolytes. 

"Let's  make  this  a  close  corporation,"  he 
suggested.  "The  fewer  in  it,  the  less  chance 
of  its  getting  out.  We'll  make  it  six  Xaverian 
Acolytes  instead  of  seven.  I  see  five  on  this 
list  besides  yourself,  Charlie,  who  can  spare 
the  money  and  hold  their  tongues.  Each  will 
give  two  dollars  a  week,  and  Bob  three." 

"That's  the  stuff!"  cried  Bob  radiantly. 

Brother  Crellin  was  an  adept  in  the  use  of 
the  telephone.  Within  twenty  minutes  the 
chosen  acolytes  were  in  the  boys'  sacristy. 
Then  Brother  Crellin  set  the  matter  before 
them. 

"It's  a  privilege  to  come  in  on  this,"  said 
John  Reenan,  the  youngest  of  the  Xaverians. 
"You  can  put  me  down.  And  I'll  not  even 
tell  my  mother." 

"As  for  me,"  said  William  Denny,  "it  won't 
be  hard  at  all.  I  was  thinking  of  cutting 
cigars  and  tobacco  out  during  Advent,  and  now 


100         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

it's  settled.  That  will  save  me  one  dollar  a 
week,  and  I  can  easily  afford  the  other." 

In  like  manner  spoke  all. 

"First  ratel"  said  Charlie  Bryan.  "I  guess 
we've  got  it  all  settled  now." 

"Oh,  Lord!"  cried  Bob,  who  had  been  silent 
and  thoughtful  for  several  minutes.  "It  isn't 
settled  at  all." 

"What's  the  matter?"  cried  several. 

"Why,  this.  How  are  we  going  to  get  An- 
gelo  to  take  the  fifteen  a  week  from  us?  He 
won't  do  it.  And  even  if  he  were  willing, 
what  about  his  mother?  She's  never  accepted 
charity  in  her  life." 

"That's  a  fact,"  said  Will  Denny.  "And 
it  would  be  rubbing  it  in  on  her  in  a  way  if 
she  were  to  know  that  the  people  helping  her 
were  boys  of  the  parish,  some  of  whom  she 
used  to  help  herself.  I  don't  mind  saying  that 
I  was  a  mighty  poor  boy  when  I  went  to  St. 
Xavier  School;  and  she  knew  it,  and  she  was 
always  on  the  lookout  for  me  when  I  passed 
her  house.  She  always  took  me  in  and  fed 
me — and  sometimes  I  was  mighty  hungry. 
And  more  than  once  when  my  feet  were  on  the 
ground" — here  there  was  a  slight  break  in  the 
young  man's  voice — "she  slipped  me  a  pair  of 
shoes.  And  I'll  tell  you  something  else,  boys." 
Denny  paused  and  held  up  an  impressive  hand. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         101 

"I'm  willing  to  bet  all  my  chances  in  life 
that  she  never  told  a  soul  what  she  did  for 
me." 

"That,"  said  Brother  Crellin,  "is  the  charity 
of  Christ." 

Then  up  spoke  in  turn  each  of  the  Xaverian 
Acolytes.  Two  of  them,  like  Denny,  had 
been  very  poor  boys,  and  these  two  had  been 
helped  by  the  good  woman.  All  of  them,  at 
one  time  or  another,  had  been  fed. 

"I  had  no  idea,"  commented  the  Brother, 
"that  Mrs.  Corcoran,  good  as  I  knew  her  to 
be,  was  so  charitable.  In  fact,  it  never  oc- 
curred to  me  that  she  was  able  to  do  much 
in  that  line.  She  had  a  large  family  and  very 
little  money." 

"Where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way,"  said 
Charlie. 

"Anyway,"  pursued  Brother  Crellin,  "we 
must  imitate  her  in  not  letting  the  left  hand 
know  what  the  right  hand's  doing.  And  I've 
got  an  idea." 

"Pass  it  around,  Brother,"  said  John 
Reenan. 

"It's  this.  Father  Carney  is  a  great  friend 
of  Mrs.  Corcoran's.  She  will  stand  for  any- 
thing from  him.  Now,  if  he  goes  to  her  and 
tells  her  that  he  has  arranged  everything,  and 
that  Angelo  is  to  go  to  the  hospital  for  ten 


102         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

weeks,  and  that  he  himself  will  bring 
her  Angelo's  salary  each  week,  she'll  obey 
him." 

"Fine!"  cried  Bob. 

"But  she'll  get  suspicious,"  objected  Charlie. 
"She'll  want  to  know  how  the  firm  got  to  be  so 
generous.  In  fact,  she  may  ask  who's  paying 
the  salary." 

"I  know  it,"  asserted  the  Brother.  "And 
all  Father  Carney  has  to  do  is  to  look  severe 
and  say  that  he's  very  much  hurt  at  her  asking 
any  questions,  and  that  he  must  insist  on  her 
doing  just  what  he  tells  her.  That  wouldn't 
stop  Mrs.  Corcoran  in  dealing  with  most  peo- 
ple; but  in  Father  Carney's  case  it  will." 

Presently  the  delegation,  headed  by  Brother 
Crellin,  waited  upon  Father  Carney.  He  lis- 
tened without  interruption. 

"I  declare!"  he  said.  "Did  you  ever!"  he 
added.  "Boys,  it's  splendid.  I'm  proud  I've 
had  you  at  St.  Xavier  School.  It  seems  to 
me  I'm  getting  my  reward  in  this  world.  You 
may  go  to  bed  to-night  and  sleep  sound.  I'll 
fix  Mrs.  Corcoran.  If  she  starts  to  ask  ques- 
tions I'll  take  up  my  hat  and  look  pained,  and 
start  to  leave,  and  she'll  give  in  for  fear  of 
hurting  my  feelings.  My!  but  I'm  glad  that 
you  show  the  true  charity  of  Our  Lord — for 
that's  the  kind  of  charity  yours  is.  But  I'm 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         103 

still  gladder,  in  a  way,  that  you're  showing 
gratitude.  It's  a  rare  thing  nowadays." 

"Most  of  us,"  said  Brother  Crellin,  "are 
grateful  enough  to  people  we  expect  to  get 
something  more  out  of." 

"Oh,  yes!"  assented  the  priest.  "But  there's 
one  thing  I  want  to  criticize." 

"What's  that,  Father?"  came  the  chorus. 

"This  thing  concerns  the  Xaverian  Acolytes. 
All  the  members  ought  to  come  in  on  it." 

Eight  people  began  to  explain  at  once. 

"Hold  on,  hold  on!"  cried  the  father. 
"You've  explained  that  all  to  me  already.  Of 
course  the  whole  thing  is  to  be  kept  a  dead 
secret.  And  I  know  it  will  be  kept.  But  the 
other  fifteen  members  ought  to  do  something. 
Let  them  be  formed  into  a  flower  committee 
and  see  that  Angelo  gets  flowers  twice  a  week." 

And  so  it  was  settled  out  of  hand. 

As  the  young  men  left  they  each  shook 
hands  with  Bob  and  thanked  him  as  though 
he  had  done  them  a  personal  favor. 

And,  unusual  as  it  may  seem,  everything 
was  carried  out  according  to  the  proposed  ar- 
rangements. Angelo  at  the  end  of  the  week 
drew  his  salary ;  obtained,  to  his  great  delight, 
leave  of  absence  for  ten  weeks;  and,  accom- 
panied by  Bob,  went  to  the  Good  Samaritan 
Hospital  for  a  stay  of  two  months  and  a  half. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Narrating  how  Bob  became  prefect,  the 
mystery  of  the  Lady  in  Black,  and  the  won- 
derful oration  of  Johnny  O'Brien. 

BOB  was  a  popular  boy  in  St.  Xavier  School, 
His  kindness,  his  smile,  his  courtesy, 
won  the  good  opinion  of  the  girls,  while  his 
strength  and  skill  in  athletics  made  him  the 
hero  of  the  boys.  Bob  never  quarreled.  It 
was  impossible  to  tease  him.  Jibes  and  jests 
and  insinuations  fell  powerless  before  the 
armor  of  his  good  nature. 

At  Christmas  time  his  popularity  reached 
its  acme.  It  came  about  in  the  following 
way:  Anita  sent  him  a  Christmas  box 
with  enough  cake,  candy,  nuts,  raisins,  and 
pie  to  last  him  a  month.  Mine  host  and  hostess 
of  the  Blue  Bird  Inn,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Symmes, 
enriched  his  larder  with  a  number  of  turkeys 
and  other  eatables  that  would  have  made  a 
feast  for  Lucullus.  Tom  Temple  and  Matt 
Morris  sent  him  boxes,  too;  while  the  vener- 
able Mose  and  his  ancient  wife  remembered 
him  in  the  shape  of  the  famous  blanket  he  had 
once  worn  in  their  modest  hut. 

Bob,  seeing  that  he  was  heavily  over-sup- 
plied, went  to  Father  Carney  and  obtained 

104 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         105 

permission  to  have  the  use  of  the  St.  Xavier 
tea-room.  He  gave  the  St.  Aloysius  Sodality 
a  banquet.  There  were  one  hundred  and 
twenty  invitations,  and  one  hundred  and  nine- 
teen acceptances.  The  one  hundred  and  twen- 
tieth boy  was  down  with  tonsilitis;  and,  the 
story  goes,  it  took  the  united  efforts  of  his 
mother,  one  strong  brother,  and  three  sisters 
to  hold  him  down  in  his  bed  when  the  banquet 
hour  drew  nigh. 

Mrs.  Corcoran,  bright  and  alert  as  ever, 
took  charge  of  the  kitchen.  She  declared,  an 
hour  before  the  guests  seated  themselves,  that 
she  had  provisions  enough  for  two  hundred. 
An  hour  later  she  had  her  doubts.  The  youth- 
ful banqueters  did  not  seem  to  share  her  opin- 
ion. One  loaf  of  bread,  overlooked  in  a  hid- 
den corner  of  the  pantry,  was  the  only  bit  of 
perishable  goods  left  when  the  happy  guests 
arose  and  gave  three  cheers  for  Bob  and  three 
for  the  good  lady  and  her  assistants. 

"I  think,"  observed  Johnny  O'Brien,  as  the 
boys  made  their  way  downstairs,  "that  Bob 
Ryan  would  be  a  fine  prefect  for  our  So- 
dality." 

Judging  by  the  effect  produced,  this  was 
the  happiest  remark  that  ever  dropped  from 
Johnny's  eloquent  tongue. 

The  duly  elected  prefect  had  left  school  just 


before  the  holidays  to  go  to  work,  and  by  do- 
ing so  had  automatically  ceased  to  be  a 
member  of  the  St.  Aloysius  Sodality.  So 
there  was  more  than  academic  suggestion  in 
Johnny's  remark. 

One  week  later  the  officers  were  summoned 
to  nominate  three  names  for  the  prefectship. 
Bob  got  every  vote  but  his  own.  The  mem- 
bers, following  the  lead  of  the  officers,  then 
elected  Bob  to  the  prefectship,  by  the  hand- 
somest majority  ever  given  in  any  boys'  So- 
dality of  Cincinnati. 

Bob  inaugurated  his  term  in  office  by  in- 
troducing an  athletic  section.  The  sessions 
were  held  on  Friday  and  Saturday  nights  in 
the  schoolboys'  playroom.  At  the  suggestion 
of  Charlie  Bryan  he  started  the  boys  with 
boxing  and  wrestling. 

"You  see,  it's  this  way,"  Charlie  explained. 
"Nearly  every  boy  with  good  red  blood  in 
him,  like — like — well,  like  us  Irish,  is  more  or 
less  pugnacious.  And  the  trouble  is  they 
haven't  much  chance  for  a  real,  good,  honest 
fight.  Generally  speaking,  there's  always 
something  wrong  about  fighting,  and  half  the 
fights  that  do  come  off  among  the  boys  come 
from  the  fact  that  one  boy  is  just  naturally 
dead  curious  to  find  out  whether  he  isn't 
stronger  than  some  other  boy." 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         107 

"I  guess  that's  so,"  said  the  new  prefect. 

"Well,  they'll  have  their  very  natural  curi- 
osity gratified  with  boxing  and  wrestling  or 
with  both,  and  then  there's  something  else; 
they'll  learn  the  great  lesson  of  self-restraint." 

"How's  that,  Charlie?" 

"Why,  we  will  teach  them  to  keep  their  tem- 
pers. As  soon  as  a  boy  gets  mad  we'll  call 
him  to  order.  If  he  doesn't  correct  himself, 
we'll  take  him  out  and  put  another  boy  in  his 
place.  You'll  do  the  teaching,  Bob,  because 
you  know  more  about  it  than  any  of  our 
fellows;  but  I'll  be  on  hand  with  some 
of  the  other  Xaverian  Acolytes  to  act  as  ref- 
erees." 

"George!"  exclaimed  Bob,  "that  will  be 
great.  And  you'll  tell  them  they  must  keep 
their  tempers?" 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  Charlie.  "Some  of  them 
might  think  we  were  mixing  the  thing  up  with 
a  Sunday-school  class.  We'll  tell  them  to  keep 
cool,  to  be  game." 

"I  see,"  said  Bob  grinning.  "As  Johnny 
O'Brien  would  put  it,  they  must  all  be  good 
sports." 

"Exactly." 

With  the  successful  inauguration  of  boxing 
and  wrestling,  tempered  by  dumb-bell  and  In- 
dian club  exercises,  the  fighting  spirit  of  the 


108         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

youth  attending  St.  Xavier's  found  a  sufficient 
outlet.  They  all  became  Johnny  O'Briens. 

Bob  was  now  busier  than  ever.  His  studies, 
his  duties  as  prefect,  his  visits  as  member  of 
the  Sick  Committee,  to  which  committee  Wil- 
liam Devine  and  Edward  Bolan  were  now 
added,  and  his  task  as  athletic  instructor  gave 
him  little  or  no  free  time.  He  was  too  busy 
to  worry ;  too  busy  to  give  thought  to  the  mys- 
tery that  might  else  have  clouded  his  life;  too 
busy  to  realize  that  he  was  alone  in  the  world, 
and  that  by  the  end  of  the  school  year  his 
money  would  be  exhausted  and  he  would  be 
unprovided  for. 

Toward  the  end  of  February  Bob  was  seated 
beside  Angelo  in  a  bright  room  in  the  Good 
Samaritan  Hospital. 

"Well,  Angelo,  how  do  you  feel?" 

"I  feel,  I  feel — I  feel  like  a  morning  star. 
I've  been  here  nine  weeks,  Bob.  There's  just 
one  more  left.  But,  goodness  gracious  me! 
I've  been  well  for  the  last  ten  days — never 
felt  so  well  in  all  my  life.  I  wanted  to  go  out 
last  week;  but  Dr.  Keane  said  nix." 

"I  guess  he  knows  best,"  said  Bob.  "He's 
awfully  proud  of  your  case.  He  told  me  so 
himself;  and  he  says  that  if  you  take  just 
common  care  of  yourself  you'll  be  better  now 
than  you  ever  were  in  your  life." 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         109 

"That's  the  way  I  feel.  And,  Bob,  I  got 
a  mighty  nice  letter  from  my  firm.  They  say 
that  they've  learned  in  my  absence  how  much 
work  I've  been  doing,  and  that  my  place  is 
open  to  me,  even  if  I  need  to  stay  away  for 
six  months  or  a  year." 

"That's  some  compliment,"  said  Bob. 

"I  guess  it's  because  I'm  quick  at  figuring, 
Bob.  I  got  that  from  my  father.  When  I 
leave  here  next  week  I'm  going  to  give  up 
extra  lessons  and  studies." 

"The  doctor  says  you  must/'  said  Bob.  "He 
sa^s;  you  can  take  up  the  extras  when  you're 
nineteen  or  twenty*  Say,  what  beautiful 
flowers  you've  got!" 

** Aren't  ihey?  They've  been  coming  every 
day,  •Bob,  besides  the  flowers  from  the  Xaver- 
ian  Acolytes.  For  a  long  time  I  wondered 
who  was  sending  them.  Now  I  think  I  know." 

"You  do?  I've  been  wondering,  too.  Lots 
of  boys  have  been  trying  to  find  out.  Who 
is  it?" 

"You  remember  me  telling  you  about  the 
very  nice  quiet  lady  who  came  to  see  me  the 
first  week  I  was  here?" 

"The  one  who  didn't  give  any  name  who  left 
you  a  basket  of  fruit?" 

"That's  the  one.  She  was  here  again  yester- 
day. And  she  brought  me  more  fruit;  and, 


110         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

though  her  face  is  very  sad,  she  smiles  so 
sweetly  and  seemed  to  feel  so  very  glad  be- 
cause I  was  so  much  better." 

As  Angelo  spoke,  Bob's  eyes  widened  and  a 
great  wonderment  showed  upon  his  features. 
He  cupped  his  chin  in  his  familiar  pose. 

"When  I  thinl  of  her,"  Angelo  continued, 
"I  always  think  of  her  as  the  Lady  in  Black." 

Bob  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"The  Lady  in  Black!"  he  repeated. 

"Yes;  she's  dressed  in  mourning.  She  has 
the  gentlest  face  I  ever  saw.  But  there's  some- 
thing strange  about  her  f°re,  too,  that  puzzled 
me.  The  Sister  in  charge  of  this  floor  says 
that  she  must  have  suffered  a  good  deal,  and 
the  nurse  says  that  it  must  be  the  loss  of  her 
husband." 

"Does  she  live  in  Hamilton?"  asked  Bob. 

"Why,  Bob  Ryan,  who  tokl  you  about  her?" 

"She's  fond  of  boys,  isn't  she,  Angelo?" 

"You  talk  as  if  you  knew  her,  Bob.  The 
nurse  says  that  she  comes  here  about  once  a 
month  and  visits  all  the  sick  children,  espe- 
cially the  boys.  Anyhow,  I'm  now  almost 
dead  certain  that  she's  the  one  who  has  been 
sending  me  flowers  every  day." 

"I  wish  I  did  know  her,"  said  Bob,  seating 
himself  once  more,  and  putting  his  hand  under 
his  chin. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         111 

"And  she  wishes  that  she  knew  you,  Bob." 

"What!" 

"Just  as  I  said.  I  was  telling  her  about 
your  Sodality  and  your  Sick  Committee  and 
your  being  prefect  and  your  athletic  section, 
and  she  was  so  pleased — no,  that's  too  weak  a 
word — she  was  so  delighted!  What  took  her 
most  was  your  care  of  the  sick.  She  says  she 
hopes  to  meet  you  some  day." 

"I  hope  she  will,  Angelo,"  said  Bob  fer- 
vently. 

"By  the  way,"  Angelo  began,  after  a  short 
pause,  "has  your  Sodality  anything  new  on 
hand?" 

"I  should  say  we  have.  We're  going  good, 
as  Johnny  O'Brien  says,  but  we  want  to  go 
better.  The  gym  class  is  full,  and  the  boys 
are  learning  to  take  hard  knocks  without  losing 
their  tempers.  The  Communion  Section,  the 
Brothers  tell  me,  has  produced  wonderful  re- 
sults. But  we're  springing  a  new  move  for 
this  Lent." 

"What's  that?" 

"It  isn't  anything  original,  Angelo;  it's  just 
trying  to  do  in  a  small  way  what  the  Young 
Ladies'  Sodality  have  been  doing  for  years. 
You  know,  during  Lent  we  all  make  some 
little  sacrifices.  A  lot  of  the  boys  cut  out  mov- 
ing pictures,  and  no  end  of  them  stop  eating 


112         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

candy.  Now,  what  we  propose  to  do  is  to  get 
the  kids  to  put  aside  the  money  they  would 
else  spend  for  candy  and  moving  pictures  and 
things  like  that,  and  hand  it  over  to  Father 
Reardon  for  a  fund  to  go  to  the  Jesuit  mis- 
sion in  British  Honduras." 

"Why  the  British  Honduras  mission,  Bob?" 

"Oh,  we've  had  a  lecture  on  it  from  a  former 
missionary  there,  and  he  told  us  they  needed 
money  badly  just  now;  and  besides,  the  fel- 
lows know  some  of  the  men  who  were  mission- 
aries there;  and  so  we  thought  it  might  inter- 
est them  more  than  if  we  worked  for  the  for- 
eign missions  in  general." 

"Do  you  think  the  boys  will  take  to  it,  Bob?" 

"I  hope  so;  but  I'm  not  so  sure.  We  an- 
nounced it  two  weeks  ago,  and  we  started  the 
collection  last  Sunday.  The  first  Sunday  of 
Lent  only  six  boys  reported,  and  the  amount 
turned  in  was  fifty-seven  cents." 

"That's  not  so  very  bad,  Bob." 

"I  don't  know.  I  put  in  twenty-five  cents 
myself.  At  the  rate  we're  going  we'll  get 
about  three  dollars.  The  kids  are  all  right; 
but  sometimes  you've  got  to  club  them  almost 
to  wake  them  up.  I  wish  I  knew  how  I  could 
get  them  interested." 

Bob  had  some  cause  to  worry  in  regard  to 
this,  his  pet  scheme.  On  the  following  Sun- 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         113 

day  eleven  boys  reported,  their  self-denial 
offerings  coming  to  eighty-one  cents.  It  was 
discouraging.  Then — to  be  precise,  on  the 
following  Tuesday — something  happened. 

It  was  half -past  three  in  the  afternoon,  the 
time  for  the  dismissal  of  the  classes.  Bob 
Ryan,  who  was  to  stay  for  special  work  in  the 
eighth  grade,  came  hurrying  into  the  yard  to 
deliver  a  note  from  his  teacher  to  a  boy  of  a 
lower  grade.  He  caught  the  boy  at  the  gate 
and,  having  handed  him  the  note,  was  about  to 
return,  when  Alice  O'Shea  came  running  up 
to  him,  holding  in  her  hand  a  cheap-looking 
publication. 

"Listen,  Bob,"  she  cried.  "There's  a  man 
standing  over  at  our  gate;  and  he's  giving  a 
copy  of  this  to  each  little  girl  as  they  come 
out." 

Bob  took  the  paper  and  glanced  over  its 
headlines. 

There  is  a  species  of  publication,  quite  com- 
mon in  the  backwoods  of  America,  which  has 
its  reason  for  existing  founded  on  the  gospel 
of  hate.  Under  the  name  of  patriotism — that 
patriotism,  by  the  way,  which  has  been  aptly 
defined  as  "the  last  refuge  of  a  scoundrel" — 
it  attacks  Catholics,  their  doctrines,  their  prac- 
tices, their  priests,  the  nuns.  Every  issue 
of  such  papers  is  well  seasoned  with  lubricity, 


114         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

which  has  an  appeal  to  a  large  circle  of  read- 
ers; every  issue  abounds  in  the  truth  which  is 
half  a  truth,  and  consequently  worse  than  a 
lie ;  every  issue  smacks  of  listening  at  keyholes 
and  of  backstairs  gossip.  These  papers  pre- 
tend to  represent  patriotism  and  Protestant- 
ism. They  are  an  infamous  libel  on  both. 

Such  a  paper  was  the  one  in  Bob's  hand. 
We  shall  call  it  the  Unspeakable.  For  the 
second  time  in  the  recorded  history  of  Bob 
Ryan  his  face  flushed  with  anger.  He  tore 
the  paper  to  pieces,  and  threw  it  into  a  waste- 
paper  box  placed  near  the  boys'  gate. 

"Here,  fellows,"  he  cried  to  two  of  the  fifth- 
grade  boys,  "get  hold  of  this  waste-paper  box, 
and  bring  it  over  as  quick  as  you  can  to  the 
girls'  side." 

Then  Bob,  followed  by  the  eager-eyed  Alice, 
hastened  to  the  sidewalk,  and  paused  for  a 
moment  to  see  what  was  being  done. 

A  nondescript  fellow  of  about  thirty  years  of 
age,  with  a  beard  of  several  days'  growth,  was 
handing  the  little  girls  of  the  lower  grade,  as 
they  issued  from  the  school  grounds,  a  copy  of 
the  Unspeakable. 

"Take  that  home  to  your  mother,"  he  said 
from  time  to  time. 

Bob  drew  nearer,  followed  almost  immedi- 
ately by  the  two  willing  boys  of  the  fifth  grade 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         115 

with  their  waste-paper  box,  provided  gra- 
ciously by  a  municipality  to  help  keep  the 
city  clean. 

"Alice,"  he  said,  "round  up  all  those  little 
girls  who  have  gone  off  with  those  papers,  and 
tell  them  to  bring  them  back  to  me." 

At  the  words,  Alice  with  speeding  feet 
hastened  to  obey. 

Then  Bob  halted  the  two  girls  who  had  just 
received  copies  of  the  fragrant  sheet. 

"Hand  'em  here,  children,"  he  said,  with  his 
old  smile.  "Your  mother  wouldn't  want  that 
thing  in  her  house." 

"Take  'em,  Bob,"  said  one,  handing  her 
copy  to  him  as  though  she  were  re- 
ceiving a  favor.  The  second  girl  made  a  like 
speech. 

He  tore  the  two  copies  into  bits,  and  threw 
them  into  the  municipal  can. 

The  agent  of  the  Unspeakable  forgot  his 
work,  and  fixed  upon  Bob  eyes  of  anger.  He 
might  as  well  not  have  fixed  them,  however, 
so  far  as  the  boy  was  concerned.  Bob  was  too 
intent  upon  the  matter  in  hand  to  take  any 
interest  in  facial  expression. 

"Here,  Bob,  take  mine"-  "Take  mine, 
Bob."-  -"I  was  here  first;  take  mine." 

For  Bob  was  surrounded  now  by  the  sweet, 
innocent  children  of  the  first  grade,  all  clamor- 


116         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

ing  in  tiny  accents  to  be  relieved  of  the  Un- 
speakable. 

Bob,  for  the  next  three  or  four  minutes,  was 
the  busiest  boy  in  Cincinnati;  the  man,  the 
most  glaring.  Between  Bob  and  himself  was 
a  host  of  little  girls,  all  trying  to  reach  Bob, 
not  one  of  them  conscious  of  the  awful  glare. 

"I'm  with  you,  Bob,"  cried  a  familiar  voice, 
"pass  'em  to  me,  and  I'll  help  tear  'em  up." 

It  was  that  prince  of  sports,  Johnny 
O'Brien. 

There  were  others  with  him  presently,  boys 
from  the  fifth  and  sixth  grades.  The  can  was 
fast  filling  with  Unspeakable*.  Meanwhile, 
the  girls  of  the  third  grade  caught  the  idea, 
and  proceeded  each  to  tear  up  her  own  par- 
ticular copy.  Very  shortly  the  crowd  about 
Bob  thinned;  and  the  man,  ceasing  to  glare, 
had  recourse  to  action. 

Advancing  to  Bob,  he  held  a  paper  toward 
him. 

"Do  you  want  this  paper,  sonny?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Bob,  "I'll  take  all  you  give 
me." 

"Now,"  said  the  agent  of  the  Unspeakable, 
handing  Bob  a  copy,  "I'd  like  to  see  you  tear 
that  up." 

"Then  you'll  see  it,  all  right,"  said  Johnny 
O'Brien, 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         117 

And  so  he  did. 

Without  further  word  the  enraged  fellow 
gave  Bob  a  sound  smack  on  the  cheek. 

"Take  that,  will  you?"  he  added. 

The  man,  very  properly,  regarded  Bob  as 
a  boy.  And  so  he  looked.  Bob  was  dressed 
like  any  other  lad  of  fourteen  years. 

Bob  raised  his  head  and  looked  surprised. 
It  may  seem  remarkable,  but  the  fact  is  that 
he  showed  no  sign  of  anger.  Not  for  nothing 
had  he  conducted  the  gym  classes. 

Then  a  brilliant  idea  occurred  to  the  ag- 
gressor. He  would  humiliate  that  impudent 
boy  before  the  whole  crowd.  Reaching  for- 
ward an  incautious  hand  to  catch  Bob  by  the 
nose,  the  man  suddenly  saw  stars  and  felt  the 
pavement.  For  Bob's  good  right  hand  had 
shot  out  and  caught  the  aggressor  right  at  the 
point  of  the  chin. 

With  ill-suppressed  curses  the  fellow  arose, 
and,  instead  of  renewing  the  attack,  put  his 
right  hand  into  his  hip  pocket. 

"Quick,  Bob,"  cried  Johnny  O'Brien,  "he's 
got  a  gun." 

Bob  did  not  need  this  admonition.  As  the 
hand  moved  to  the  pocket  Bob  struck  out 
once  more,  and  once  more  the  man  went  down 
with  a  precipitancy  which  must  have  been 
hard  on  the  concrete  sidewalk. 


118         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

The  fellow,  somewhat  dazed  but  still  suffi- 
ciently conscious,  sat  up,  making  no  attempt 
to  rise,  and,  fixing  eyes  of  malignity  upon  the 
boy,  once  more  reached  for  his  hip  pocket. 
With  the  quickness  of  a  trained  wrestler  in 
perfect  condition,  Bob  was  upon  him  and 
pinned  him  to  the  sidewalk. 

"Quick!"  he  cried,  "get  Jerry." 

"He's  coming,  he's  coming!"  piped  a  chorus 
of  voices. 

Through  the  crowd  of  children  came  the 
janitor  of  St.  Xavier's. 

"Here,  let  me  at  him,"  he  cried. 

"Look  out,  Jerry,"  said  Johnny  O'Brien. 
"He's  got  a  gun  in  his  pocket." 

"He'll  not  have  it  long,"  said  Jerry,  push- 
ing Bob  aside  and  beginning  his  experiments 
on  the  agent  of  the  Unspeakable  by  knocking 
him  flat. 

Then  Jerry  took  the  man  by  the  feet  and 
held  him  up  on  high.  Out  from  his  pockets 
fell:  one  pistol,  one  vicious-looking  knife,  a 
blackjack,  several  pieces  of  silver,  and  a  lot 
of  pictures  and  leaflets,  all  of  them  a  trifle  more 
unspeakable  than  the  unspeakable  paper  it- 
self. 

"You  let  go  of  me,"  shouted  the  man,  re- 
stored to  his  feet,  trembling  with  rage  and 
fear. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         119 

Jerry  reversed  him  once  more,  and  was  thus 
holding  him  when  Officer  Brierly  laid  a  hand 
upon  the  janitor. 

"What's  the  charge,  Jerry?" 

"Oh,  there's  no  charge  at  all.  I'm  willing 
to  give  him  another  shaking,  free,  too." 

"But  what  has  he  done?" 

Jerry  calmly  restored  the  man  to  his  feet. 

"He's  carrying  a  pistol;  and  look  at  the 
dirty  stuff  I  shook  out  of  his  pockets.  And 
he's  been  passing  a  dirty  paper  out  to  the  lit- 
tle girls  of  this  school." 

The  officer  put  his  arm  about  the  terror- 
stricken  man. 

"I'll  take  him,  Jerry:  we'll  have  several 
charges  against  him." 

"Sure,  you're  welcome  to  him.  He's  too 
small  for  me.  Say,  officer,  while  we're  waiting 
for  the  patrol  would  you  mind  my  giving  him 
a  sound  spanking?" 

Brierly  grinned. 

"The  patrol  is  coming,"  he  said. 

A  few  moments  later  Johnny  O'Brien, 
mounted  on  the  wooden  box  procured  for  the 
occasion,  yelled  at  the  top  of  his  voice: 

"Attention,  you  kiddies." 

The  children  who  had  waited  to  see  the 
patrol  wagon  take  away  the  prisoner  were  in 
no  hurry  to  leave.  Johnny's  face,  alight  with 


120         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

enthusiasm,  drew  them,  one  might  say,  mag- 
netically. 

"You  saw  Bob  Ryan  do  up  that  bigoted 
short  skate,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  Sister,"  answered  most  of  the  girls. 

"Well,  that's  the  kind  of  a  poor  fish  our 
Catholic  missioners  have  got  to  go  up  against. 
Those  fellows  are  liars  and  cowards." 

"Hurrah  1"  cried  Johnny  O'Brien's  sister. 

"Hurrah!"  echoed  a  hundred  small  boys. 

The  girls  squealed  approbation. 

"Two  weeks  ago,"  continued  Johnny,  ges- 
ticulating wildly,  "Bob  Ryan  started  our  So- 
dality to  get  up  a  fund — a  lot  of  money,  you 
know — to  help  our  missioners.  And  is  the 
money  coming  in?  Not  so  as  you  can  notice 
it.  And  look  here,  you  kiddies.  That  fellow 
who's  just  gone  off  a  joy-riding  in  the  patrol 
wagon  has  handed  out  free  more  copies  of  his 
measly  old  paper  than  all  the  money  we  have 
collected  could  pay  for.  Ain't  that  nice?" 

"Yes,  Johnny,"  answered  a  little  girl  seri- 
ously. 

Most  of  the  girls  nodded  their  heads  in  as- 
sent. 

"Aw,  go  on  home!"  growled  Johnny,  and 
got  down. 

One  hundred  little  girls  followed  the  dis- 
gusted orator's  advice.  They  went  home,  and 


with  shining  eyes  and  voluble  tongues  related 
all  the  incidents  leading  up  to  the  arrest,  con- 
cluding with  Johnny  O'Brien's  flash  of  ora- 
tion. These  innocent  children  varied  ex- 
tremely in  their  several  accounts.  Neverthe- 
less, three  distinct  and  uniform  impres- 
sions were  firmly  established  throughout  the 
parish: 

1st.  Bob  Ryan  knocked  out  a  big  man  who 
hated  the  Catholic  Church. 

2nd.  The  man  was  trying  to  offset  the 
good  work  of  the  British  Honduras  mission- 
aries. 

3rd.  Bob  Ryan  was  trying  to  get  up  a  fund 
to  help  the  missionaries  against  these  bigots. 

There  was  a  general  opinion,  also,  to  the 
effect  that  Johnny  O'Brien  would  go  to  Con- 
gress some  day. 

Next  morning  three  little  girls — two  of  them 
twins — brought  Bob  three  dollars  for  his  fund. 
In  the  afternoon  eight  innocents  added  four 
dollars  more. 

On  the  following  day,  there  was  so  great  a 
throng  of  donors  that  Bob  was  forced  to  get 
an  assistant.  The  story  spread.  All  the  girls 
in  the  upper  grades  began  to  show  interest. 
Nickles  and  dimes  and  quarters  came  rolling 
in.  Last  of  all  the  St.  Aloysius  Sodality  woke 
up.  It  was  their  work,  and  it  was  the  girls 


122         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

who  were  doing  it.     The  spirit  of  generosity 
spread. 

By  the  end  of  Lent,  the  amount  subscribed 
to  the  British  Honduras  fund  totaled  seven 
hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars. 


CHAPTER  X 

In  which  the  mystery  concerning  the  late 
Mr.  Corcoran  is  cleared,  and  Mrs.  Corcoran 
learns  much  from  Bob  Ryan. 

N  a  Saturday  morning  toward  the  close  of 
Lent  there  was  a  knock  at  Bob's  door. 

"Come  in,"  chirped  Bob  blithely.  "Oh," 
he  cried,  jumping  to  his  feet,  "is  it  you,  Mrs. 
Corcoran?" 

"Good  morning,  Bob.  I've  come  to  have  a 
talk  with  you." 

Bob,  smiling  radiantly,  moved  the  finest 
chair  in  his  room  from  a  corner. 

"Sit  down,  Mrs.  Corcoran.  I  had  no  idea 
it  was  you  who  knocked.  I  thought  it  was  one 
of  the  boys." 

"Now,  look  here,  Bob  Ryan;  my  boy,  An- 
gelo,  is  well  and  working,  and  he's  going  to 
get  a  raise  of  ten  dollars  on  the  first  of  next 
month." 

"By  George!"  cried  Bob;  "that's  just 
bully." 

"And  all  the  ten  weeks  he  was  sick,  and 
you  visited  him,  he  drew  his  fifteen  dollars  a 
week." 

123 


124         HIS  LUCKIEST  TEAR 

"That  was  fine!"  said  Bob. 

"Now,  Bob,  where  did  that  money  come 
from?" 

Bob  turned  rosy.  He  looked  at  Mrs.  Cor- 
coran, opened  his  mouth  as  though  about  to 
reply,  but  uttered  no  sound. 

"Bob  Ryan,"  she  repeated,  "where  did  that 
money  come  from?" 

"Why  don't  you  ask  Father  Carney?"  he 
gasped. 

"Bob  Ryan,  where  did  that  money  come 
from?" 

"Why — where — Oh,  Jiminy — what  makes 
you  ask?" 

"Because,"  answered  Mrs.  Corcoran,  "two 
days  ago  my  boy  got  a  letter  from  his  firm, 
and  in  that  letter  it  said  that  it  wasn't  their 
custom  to  pay  salary  to  their  office  force  when 
on  the  sick  list,  but  that  in  view  of  certain  cor- 
rections they  had  just  discovered  which  my 
boy  had  made  in  their  accounts  a  week  before 
he  went  to  the  hospital,  and  which  saved  the 
firm  several  hundred  dollars,  they  had  resolved 
to  make  an  exception  in  his  case,  and  so  they 
enclosed  a  check  for  seventy-five  dollars — half 
pay  for  the  ten  weeks  he  was  away." 

"Yes,"  said  Bob.  "And  do  you  know,  Mrs. 
Corcoran,  that  Albert,  my  best  friend,  is  the 
finest  boy  in  the  eighth  grade?" 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         125 

"We're  not  talking  about  Albert,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Corcoran. 

"Have  you  ever  taken  a  look  at  my  room? 
There  are  some  mighty  nice  pictures  in  it. 
Look  here,"  and  Bob  arose,  "this  picture  over 
my  desk " 

"Sit  down,  Bob  Ryan;  we're  not  talking 
about  pictures." 

"Oh,  hang  it!"  blurted  Bob.  "We  just 
knew  you  wouldn't  stand  for  any  charity.  It 
was  a  trick." 

"Bob  Ryan,  tell  me  about  it." 

Bob  had  a  miserable  quarter  of  an  hour. 
He  tried  to  suppress  his  own  part;  but  Mrs. 
Corcoran's  direct  and  pointed  questions  left 
him  no  loophole  of  escape.  The  whole  story 
came  out. 

Then  Mrs.  Corcoran  took  out  her  handker- 
chief and  wept. 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,  ma'am.  Please  don't," 
pleaded  Bob. 

But  she  continued  to  weep. 

"I — I — wouldn't  hurt  your  feelings,"  Bob 
exclaimed,  "for  anything  in  the  world.  Oh, 
Mrs.  Corcoran,  we  certainly  meant  all  right." 

Then  Mrs.  Corcoran,  with  the  tears  stand- 
ing in  her  eyes,  raised  her  face  and  smiled. 

"Bob  Ryan,  God  bless  you,"  and  she  wiped 
her  eyes.  "And  God  bless  Father  Carney  and 


126         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

Brother  Crellin  and  Charlie  Bryan  and  all 
those  boys.  And  what  I  say  now  I'm  going  to 
keep  on  saying  as  long  as  I'm  able  to  pray." 

"That's  good  of  you,"  said  Bob. 

"We're  as  happy  a  home  now  as  there  is  in 
Cincinnati.  We  want  nothing;  and  if  God 
continues  to  help  us,  we  shall  soon  be  able  to 
help  others." 

"You're  always  helping  others,"  said  Bob. 

"Bob,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something 
which  nobody  but  my  confessor  knows." 

Bob  grew  alarmed  once  more. 

"I  married  a  very  clever  man  and  a  good 
man,  too.  But  from  the  second  year  of  my 
marriage  until  his  death  I  carried  an  awful 
burden.  It  lasted  nearly  twenty  years,  and 
I  carried  it  alone.  I  tried  to  be  brave;  I  tried 
to  keep  a  smiling  face.  I  tried  to  make  both 
ends  meet,  with  nothing  at  either  end,  and 
sometimes  I  got  so  desperate  that  I  spent 
hours  before  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  If  it 
weren't  for  daily  communion  I  think  I'd  have 
gone  mad." 

"What  in  the  world  was  the  matter?" 
thought  Bob,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"The  fact  is,"  continued  Mrs.  Corcoran,  "my 
husband  was  a  gambler." 

"Oh!"  cried  Bob. 

"Not  an  ordinary  sort  of  gambler,  Bob,  but 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         12? 

a  scientific  one.  He  was  amazing  at  figures, 
as  you  know,  and  he  had  a  hobby  on  the  laws 
of  chance." 

"Oh!"  cried  Bob  once  more,  beginning  at 
last  to  see  a  light. 

"From  the  first  years  of  our  marriage  he 
took  to  figuring  out  how  to  beat  the  races.  As 
a  result,  nearly  all  his  salary  was  thrown  away 
on  his  experiments.  When  I  married  him,  I 
had  three  thousand  dollars.  The  day  you  came 
to  see  Albert  as  the  Sick  Committee  I  had 
spent  the  last  cent  of  that  money." 

"You  must  have  had  a  hard  time,  Mrs.  Cor- 
coran." 

"It  was  especially  hard  the  last  six  months 
of  my  husband's  life.  He  thought  he  had  dis- 
covered at  last  a  sure  method  of  beating  the 
races,  and  he  worked  at  it  night  and  day.  He 
assured  me  that  he'd  soon  be  a  millionaire. 
Sometimes  I  feared  he  was  going  insane.  In 
the  meantime  I  saw  nothing  but  ruin  and 
starvation  ahead." 

"Now  I  understand,  ma'am,"  said  the  sym- 
pathetic boy. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  bore  it  the  last  four 
weeks  of  his  life,"  continued  the  good  woman. 
"I  don't  know  how  I  kept  the  secret  from  my 
friends.  Why,  when  he  talked  often  about 
buying  a  house  at  Clifton  and  stopping  work, 


128         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

it  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from  screaming. 
It  was — it  was — hard." 

"I  should  say  so,"  assented  Bob. 

"And  then  he  quit  work." 

"I  remember,"  said  Bob. 

"And  the  next  day,  Bob,  he  went  over  to 
stake  his  whole  salary  on  the  plan  he  had  fig- 
ured out — the  plan  which  he  said  was  sure  to 
win.  And  when  he  was  at  the  races  I  was 
kneeling  before  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  I  was 
there  for  three  hours — the  three  blackest  hours 
of  my  life." 

"That  was  terrible,"  whispered  Bob. 

"Yes;  but  I  thought  even  then  how  Our 
Lord  suffered  in  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane, 
and  the  thought  made  me  brave.  Then  I  got  up 
and  went  out  of  the  church  and  returned  home. 
The  news  of  my  husband's  death  followed  me 
into  the  house.  And,  Bob,  while  it  was  a  shock, 
I  could  not  but  wonder  whether  it  was  an  an- 
swer to  my  prayers.  And  when  that  good 
priest  who  was  at  my  husband's  side  in  his  last 
hours  came  to  me  and  brought  his  dying  mes- 
sage, I  knew  it  was  an  answer  to  prayer. 
Bob,  my  husband  was  himself  in  his  last  con- 
scious moments;  he  was  the  man  I  married 
twenty  years  ago.  He  made  a  good  confes- 
sion; he  was  heartily  sorry  for  a  wasted  life, 
and  he  told  the  priest  that  he  had  been  a  de- 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         129 

luded  fool.  He  sent  his  dearest  love  to  me 
and  the  children;  he  begged  my  forgiveness, 
and  he  died  from  the  shock  that  came  from 
finding  that  all  his  studies  and  calculations 
for  beating  the  races  had  come  to  nothing. 
Best  of  all,  he  died  humbled,  repentant,  with 
the  sacred  name  of  Jesus  upon  his  lips." 

"Thank  God  for  that,  ma'am." 

"I'm  telling  you  this,  Bob,  because  I  trust 
you  and  love  you  as  my  own  son.  You  were 
right,  my  boy;  I  fear  I'd  have  been  too  proud 
to  accept  help  even  from  Father  Carney.  But 
it  was  done.  And  my  boy  is  saved.  And  want 
and  poverty  are  no  longer  threatening;  and 
my  children  are  well  and  happy,  and  I  am 
grateful  beyond  any  words.  As  for  those 
young  men  who  helped,  they  are  just  noble. 
I'll  never,  never  forget  what  you  and  they 
have  done.  Sometimes,  Bob,  I  have  seen  some 
mighty  mean  and  ugly  things  in  human  nature. 
Perhaps  I  shall  meet  such  things  again.  But 
no  matter  how  ugly  they  may  be,  I'll  always 
think  of  Brother  Crellin  and  Bob  Ryan  and 
Charlie  Bryan,  and  I'll  know  that  this  world 
is  worth  while  and  that  God  created  us  a  little 
lower  than  the  angels." 

"I  know  lots  of  mighty  good  people,"  said 
Bob.  "This  parish  is  just  full  of  them.  And 
on  my  road  down  here  last  summer  I  met  the 


130         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

nicest  people  in  the  world.  You  see  that 
picture  of  the  little  girl  over  my  desk? 
That's  Anita  Reade.  She's  one  of  my  best 
friends.  I  get  a  letter  from  her  every 
week.  Hasn't  she  a  nice  face.  She's  full  of 
energy.  The  Reades  are  the  nicest  family  I 
ever  met." 

"How  did  you  come  to  meet  them,  Bob?'* 
"Well,  you  know,  Mrs.  Corcoran,  all  my 
trouble  began  last  summer.  I'd  been  living  in 
Dubuque  with  my  father  and  his  old  house- 
keeper, who  brought  me  up.  Pa  was  fond  of 
money,  but  he  didn't  care  much  for  me." 
"How  about  your  mother,  Bob?" 
"I  never  saw  her.  Pa  says  she  died  when 
I  was  a  baby  of  six  months.  Well,  anyhow, 
on  July  5th  of  last  year,  my  father  took  me 
off  from  Dubuque  in  a  machine.  We  rode  till 
it  was  very  late  at  night.  And  then  he  ordered 
me  to  get  down ;  he  gave  me  fifty  dollars  and 
told  me  not  to  show  my  face  in  Dubuque  for 
one  year.  He  said  I  was  to  go  South,  and  if 
I  didn't  do  what  he  told  me  I'd  be  arrested. 
Then  I  met  the  nicest  man  you  ever  saw,  the 
first  thing  next  morning.  His  name  is  Tom 
Temple,  and  he's  a  poet,  and  he  writes  the 
nicest  things  in  rhymes.  He  tramped  with 
me  down  along  the  Mississippi  river,  and  got 
me  interested  in  books  and  poetry.  We  had 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         131 

fine  times,  till  we  got  caught  in  a  thunderstorm 
and  Tom  Temple  took  a  chill." 

"And  what  did  you  do,  Bob,  when  he  got 
sick?" 

"A  jolly  old  man  named  Mose  found  us  out 
in  the  storm,  and  he  took  us  to  his  hut,  where 
his  wife  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  smoking  a  pipe. 
They  gave  us  shelter  for  the  night,  and  old 
Mose  is  the  funniest  old  man  I  ever  saw.  He's 
over  eighty,  but  he's  as  strong  as  an  ox.  When 
he  was  a  man  of  forty-five  he  took  a  horse 
weighing  over  eleven  hundred  pounds,  raised 
it  completely  off  the  ground  and  carried  it 
seven  feet.  No  other  man  from  Davenport 
to  Dubuque,  the  people  say,  was  able  to  do 
that.  And  would  you  believe  it,  Mrs.  Cor- 
coran, my  pa  was  right  about  the  police  being 
after  me." 

"Why,  Bob,  surely  you  never  did  anything 
wrong!" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,  ma'am.  But  the 
morning  after  I  got  to  Mose's  house  there  were 
two  detectives  came  along  looking  for  a  man 
and  a  very  fat  boy.  I  was  the  fat  boy,  ma'am, 
but  I've  trained  down.  My  partner,  Tom 
Temple,  was  already  in  the  hospital,  but  Mose 
didn't  tell  the  detectives  the  truth.  He  sent 
them  off  on  a  wrong  scent.  I  was  hiding  in 
the  house,  and  they  didn't  come  in." 


132         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"And  did  the  detectives  trouble  you  any 
more?" 

"No,  ma'am;  that's  the  last  I  heard  of  them. 
But  I  was  afraid  they  would  catch  Tom  Tem- 
ple. They  told  Mose  that  Tom  had  kidnaped 
the  boy  with  him.  Just  think  of  a  poet  like 
Tom  being  a  kidnaper.  All  the  same,  they 
managed  to  track  him  up  to  the  hospital.  He 
was  delirious  when  they  arrived,  and  so  he 
didn't  know  anything  about  it  at  the  time. 
He  was  up  visiting  there  again  about  a  month 
ago,  and  the  nurse  who  had  been  waiting  upon 
him  told  him  how  the  two  detectives  came  in 
and  looked  at  him  hard  for  five  minutes,  and 
took  out  their  note-books  and  a  photograph, 
and  then  said  that  he  wasn't  the  man  they 
were  looking  for  at  all,  and  that  they  had 
wasted  their  time  running  after  the  wrong 
pair." 

"So  they  didn't  want  you  at  all,  Bob?" 

"That's  what  I  would  think;  but  Tom  Tem- 
ple's got  a  different  idea.  He  says  they  were 
looking  for  me." 

"That's  strange,  my  boy." 

"And  Tom  says  I  must  try  to  get  back  to 
Dubuque  next  summer.  He  says  there's  a 
mystery  about  my  case  that  ought  to  be 
cleared." 

"So  you  hear  from  him,  do  you?" 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         133 

"Every  two  weeks  or  so,  Mrs.  Corcoran. 
Well,  after  I  left  Mose  and  his  wife  I  met  the 
nicest  man  and  woman  you  ever  saw.  They 
were  the  landlord  of  the  Blue  Bird  Inn  and  his 
wife.  They  gave  me  a  dinner  fit  for  a  king. 
The  lady  cooked  it,  and  she's  just  the  kind  of 
cook  you  are.  And  she's  nice  and  kind  like 
you.  Her  husband  was  fat  and  jolly.  They 
helped  me  buy  a  boat,  and  Mrs.  Symmes " 

"Who?"  cried  Mrs.  Corcoran. 

"The  lady  of  the  Blue  Bird  Inn." 

"What  name  did  you  say?" 

"Mrs.  Symmes,  ma'am." 

"Mrs.  John  Symmes?" 

"Why,  how  did  you  know  her  name?  Here's 
her  picture.  She  was  as  nice  a  woman  as  ever 
I  met.  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Cor- 
coran?" 

The  good  woman  had  taken  one  quick  glance 
at  the  photograph  which  Bob  had  selected 
from  a  number  on  his  desk,  and  then  sank  back 
into  her  chair.  Her  eyes  closed.  Bob  feared 
she  had  fainted. 

The  boy  hastily  procured  a  glass  of  water 
and  put  it  to  her  lips.  Mrs.  Corcoran  opened 
her  eyes  presently. 

"Give  me  that  picture,  Bob." 

Holding  it  in  her  hands,  she  gazed  at  it 
long  and  earnestly,  then  pressed  it  to  her  lips. 


134         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"No  wonder  I  remind  you  of  her,  Bob; 
that's  my  youngest  sister." 

"Oh!"  cried  Bob.  It  was  now  his  turn  to 
sit  down. 

"Our  family  was  broken  up  by  death  when 
I  was  quite  young,"  went  on  Mrs.  Corcoran. 
"And  my  little  sister,  who  was  then  barely 
five,  was  taken  by  some  relatives  living  in  In- 
diana. After  it  was  too  late  we  learned  that 
they  were  fallen-away  Catholics.  They  did 
all  they  could  to  make  the  little  one  forget  us. 
So,  as  the  years  went  on,  we  almost  lost  com- 
plete track  of  her.  I  just  learned  by  the  merest 
accident  a  few  months  ago  that  she  was  mar- 
ried to  a  man  named  John  Symmes.  Oh,  Bob, 
what  a  small  world  it  is  I  Tell  me  all  about 
her." 

And  then  Bob  became  eloquent.  Into  his 
story  entered  the  details  of  his  buying  The 
Wanderer,  that  splendid  boat,  and  of  his  re- 
ceiving the  best  of  dogs,  Hobo. 

"And  when  I  bade  her  good-by,"  concluded 
Bob,  "she — she  kissed  me." 

"I  don't  blame  her,  Bob,"  said  Mrs.  Cor- 
coran, "if  she  thought  half  as  much  of  you  as 
I  do.  And  I'm  so  glad  that  she  feels  so  nicely 
toward  Catholics.  She  is  baptized  a  Catholic, 
and  probably  doesn't  know  it.  So  you've  got 
her  address?" 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         135 

"Yes,  ma'am;  and  I'll  write  her  a  letter  to- 
night and  tell  her  about  you." 

"And  I,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Corcoran,  "will 
write  her  a  letter  to-night  and  tell  her  all 
about  you.  But  what  became  of  Hobo  and 
the  boat,  Bob?" 

"I'm  telling  you  my  whole  story,  ma'am. 
You've  told  me  yours.  Well,  with  that  boat  I 
began  to  make  money.  You  see,  I  wanted  to 
study  for  another  year  and  finish  the  eighth 
grade.  I  sold  fish,  and  hired  my  boat,  and  had 
a  great  time.  And  one  day,  going  down  the 
river,  I  met  the  Reades." 

"Oh,  Anita's  people." 

"Yes;  they're  the  nicest  family  I  ever  met. 
Tom  Reade  goes  to  Campion  College;  he's  a 
bird.  And  Lucille!  She's  just  a  lovely  young 
lady — tall  and  stately.  She  and  Tom  were 
almost  Catholics  when  I  met  them.  I  spent  a 
day  with  them,  and  it  was  one  of  the  happiest 
days  of  my  life.  They  treated  me  as  if  I  be- 
longed to  the  family." 

"Everybody  does  that  to  you,  Bob." 

"It  was  hard  for  me  to  leave  them.  A  day 
or  so  afterward  a  rich  man  offered  me  a  big 
price  for  my  boat.  So  I  sold  it.  That  was 
hard,  too.  While  I  was  wondering  what  to 
do  next  and  sitting  alone  by  the  river  bank, 
along  came  a  boy  named  Matt  Morris,  in  a 


136         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

canoe ;  and  we  became  friends  right  away.  He 
was  living  in  the  woods — he  was  a  Campion 
boy,  too — and  he  agreed  to  instruct  me  for 
first  communion  if  I'd  live  with  him. 
You  see,  my  pa  wouldn't  bring  me  up 
a  Catholic,  though  he  let  me  know  I  was 
baptized." 

"That's  a  funny  father  you  had." 

"He  was  queer,"  admitted  Bob.  "Of  course, 
I  was  dead  anxious  to  get  ready  for  com- 
munion, and  so  I  stayed  with  Matt  Morris. 
He  was  a  great  athlete,  and  he  put  me  through 
a  course  of  stunts  that  took  away  most  of  my 
fat,  and  made  me  a  good  boxer  and  wrestler, 
and  things  of  that  kind.  Oh,  but  we  did  have 
good  times!  We  were  happy  as  butterflies. 
And  then,  just  as  the  three  weeks  were  up,  a 
thief  got  into  our  cave  and  stole  a  lot  of  stuff, 
along  with  my  money.  I  caught  him  as  he 
was  running  away  and  got  him  down  and 
made  him  empty  out  everything  he  had 
stolen." 

"Your  boxing  and  wrestling  came  in  handy, 
Bob." 

"It  surely  did.  All  the  same,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  my  dog,  Hobo,  I  think  that  thief 
might  have  killed  me.  He  killed  poor  Hobo 
with  one  blow,  and  then  I  got  mad  and  kicked 
him  to  the  door  of  our  place.  And  Matt  fin- 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         137 

ished  what  I  began.  I  guess  Matt  was  mad, 
too." 

"It  served  him  perfectly  right,"  said  Mrs. 
Corcoran. 

"And  then,"  Bob  continued,  "who  should 
come  along  but  Mr.  Reade.  Anita  was  very 
ill  and  was  calling  for  me.  Of  course,  I  went, 
and  that  broke  up  our  camp.  But  I'll  never 
forget  Matt  Morris.  He  was  one  of  the  best 
friends  I  ever  had." 

"Are  all  your  friends  up  North?" 

"I  should  say  not.  Why,  there's  Albert. 
He's  one  of  the  best  friends  I  ever  had." 

"And  what  about  the  people  on  this  street?" 

"Why,  they're  all  friends  of  mine.  There's 
little  Alice  O'Shea.  She's  always  gay  and 
smiling  and  in  good  humor.  She  has  a  heart 
as  big  as  herself.  And  there's  Johnny 
O'Brien,  the  sport  of  Pioneer  Street.  He's 
true  as  gold.  And  there's  Alice's  best  friend, 
little  Elizabeth  Reno,  with  the  bobbed  hair  and 
the  quaint  smile  that  wrinkles  her  nose.  Why, 
I  never  had  better  friends  than  they." 

Mrs.  Corcoran  broke  into  a  ringing  laugh. 

"Look  here,  Bob  Ryan.  All  your  geese  are 
swans.  Do  you  know  that  whenever  you  talk 
about  any  of  your  friends  you  always  say  that 
each  particular  one  is  one  of  the  best  friends 
you  ever  had?" 


188         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Is  that  so?"  exclaimed  Bob.  "Why,  I 
never  noticed  till  you  told  me.  That's  funny, 
isn't  it?" 

"No,  it  isn't  funny,"  corrected  Mrs.  Cor- 
coran. "It's  just  beautiful.  Well,  you  went 
to  visit  Anita?" 

"Yes,  and  she  wanted  to  be  baptized  a 
Catholic,  and  she  got  so  ill  that  very  night  that 
I  baptized  her  myself.  And  then  we  took  her 
to  the  Good  Samaritan  Hospital  here  to  see  a 
famous  children's  specialist,  and  she  got  well. 
And  Lucille  and  Tom  became  Catholics  and 
went  to  communion  with  Anita  at  the  hospital. 
While  I  was  there  I  met  Brother  Cyril,  and 
that  settled  me.  I  had  found  my  teacher,  and 
my  school,  and  my  grade." 

"It  was  a  good  thing  for  all  of  us,  Bob, 
when  you  came  to  stay." 

"Look  at  this  room,"  cried  Bob,  arising  and 
waving  his  hands.  "See  how  beautifully  it's 
fixed  up.  Well,  the  Reades  did  that.  My, 
but  they  were  kind  to  me !  You'd  think  I  had 
done  something  wonderful  for  them;  and  I 
was  just  simply  nice  and  friendly  because  I 
loved  them." 

"Don't  you  like  everybody  you  meet,  Bob?" 

"Pretty  much  all  of  them,  ma'am." 

"And  that's  why  everybody  likes  you.  The 
boys  of  the  Sodality  swear  by  you.  Anything 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         139 

you  say  goes.  Father  Carney  has  noticed  the 
difference.  You've  put  life  into  the  Sodality; 
it's  a  going  concern.  And  you've  stopped  a 
lot  of  fussing  and  fighting.  Even  in  your 
class,  Brother  Cyril  says,  there's  more  fun  and 
more  hard  work  than  he  ever  dreamed  possible. 
Things  are  going  better  at  the  school  than  ever 
before  in  its  long  history." 

"Well,  you  see,  Mrs.  Corcoran,  with  boys 
like  your  Albert,  who  is  one  of  my  very " 

The  good  lady's  laugh  brought  him  to  a 
pause. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Anyhow,  with 
boys  like  Albert  and  Will  Devine  and  Edward 
Bolan  and  Johnny  the  dead-game  sport,  and 
a  lot  of  others  like  them,  it's  no  wonder  that 
everything  is  going  well.  But,"  added  Bob, 
after  a  pause,  "there's  one  thing  that  worries 
me." 

"What's  that?" 

"The  girls  on  our  street.  About  a  week  ago 
Lulu  Jones  got  into  a  scrap  with  Marie 
Cramer.  All  the  other  girls  took  sides.  And 
now  one-half  of  the  girls  won't  speak  to  the 
other  half." 

"That's  the  way  with  girls,"  commented  the 
good  woman.  "They  fall  out  easily,  and  they 
say  they'll  never  speak  to  each  other  again,  and 
the  next  day  they're  walking  arm  in  arm." 


140        HIS  LUCKIEST  TEAR 

"Yes;  but  this  time  it's  different,  Mrs.  Cor- 
coran. They  don't  make  up,  and  a  lot  of  them 
have  stopped  going  to  daily  communion.  Why, 
even  Alice  won't  speak  to  her  dearest  friend 
on  earth,  Elizabeth  Reno." 

"Oh,  is  that  so?"  cried  Mrs.  Corcoran. 
"Then  some  of  the  parents  have  taken  a  hand 
in  the  row." 

"That's  a  fact,"  assented  Bob.  "I  remem- 
ber now  several  mothers  paid  their  respects  to 
each  other." 

"Precisely.  Some  mothers  love  their  chil- 
dren not  wisely  but  too  well. 

"If  the  little  girls  were  left  to  themselves," 
said  Mrs.  Corcoran,  "they'd  have  their  little 
fallings-out  one  minute  and  forget  them  the 
next." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Bob.  "I'm 
glad  you  told  me.  Maybe,  now,  I  can  fix 
it  up." 

And,  if  we  may  anticipate,  on  the  following 
day  Bob,  who  had  read  the  life  of  St.  Monica, 
the  mother  of  St.  Augustine,  did  actually  bring 
about  peace.  He  told  the  warring  women  all 
the  nice  things  each  had  said  of  the  other. 

"And  you  hear  from  all  these  absent 
friends?"  continued  Mrs.  Corcoran. 

"I  certainly  do.  Even  from  old  Mose,  who 
can  neither  read  nor  write.  His  wife,  Anna, 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         141 

sends  me  letters.  It  keeps  me  busy  keeping 
up  with  them;  but  it's  worth  while.  And  do 
you  know,  Mrs.  Corcoran,  there's  one  funny 
thing  about  these  letters.  In  the  beginning  of 
the  school  year  Tom  Temple  and  Lucille  in 
all  their  letters  were  always  writing  about  each 
other.  Tom's  letters  were  all  about  Lucille, 
and  Lucille's  were  all  about  Tom." 

"That's  clear,"  said  Mrs.  Corcoran,  "they 
were  in  love." 

"But,  you  see,  they  had  never  seen  each 
other." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Corcoran,  "I  suppose  you 
wrote  to  Tom  all  you  knew  about  Lucille,  and 
you  told  Lucille  all  you  knew  about  Tom." 

"How  did  you  guess  that?" 

"And  on  the  strength  of  your  talk  and  your 
letters  it  was  a  case  of  love  before  first  sight." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Well,  maybe  it  was. 
Anyhow  I  told  the  truth.  But  here's  the 
funny  part.  They  met  each  other  early  in 
December;  and  since  that  time  they  don't  say 
a  word  about  each  other  in  their  letters." 

"You  don't  say!"  cried  Mrs.  Corcoran.  "I 
guess,  Bob,  you  spoke  about  them  too  flatter- 
ingly." 

"I  didn't,"  returned  Bob  stoutly.  "I  only 
told  the  truth.  Lucille  is  the  nicest  young 
lady  I  ever  met.  She's  one  of  my 


142         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

A  ringing  laugh  put  an  end  to  Bob's  pane- 
gyric of  the  "tall  and  stately"  Lucille. 

"And  as  for  Tom  Temple,"  continued  Bob, 
blushing  and  grinning,  "he's  just  a  wonder. 
His  poems  are  better  than  ever,  and  he's  get- 
ting more  money  for  them,  and  he's  writing 
more.  And  only  the  other  day  he  sent  me 
another  check  for  thirty  dollars  which  he  says 
he  still  owes  me  from  our  partnership  on  the 
Mississippi  river." 

"And  he's  one  of  the  best  friends  you  ever 
met?"  said  Mrs.  Corcoran,  her  eyes  dancing 
with  fun. 

"That's  no  joke,"  returned  Bob.  "The 
trouble  with  you,  Mrs.  Corcoran,  is  that  you 
haven't  seen  these  friends  of  mine." 

"Well,  Bob,"  said  Mrs.  Corcoran,  rising. 
"I'm  sure  God's  blessing  is  on  you.  I'm  a 
better  woman  for  knowing  you " 

"Oh,  shucks!"  interrupted  the  boy. 

"I  am.  God  knows  I  am.  And  I've  prom- 
ised Our  Lord  that  in  memory  of  the  sweet 
charity  shown  my  boy  Angelo  and  my  family 
I  will  give  all  the  time  I  can  spare  and  all 
the  money  I  can  spare  to  helping  the  needy. 
What  has  been  done  to  me  and  mine  I  am 
going  to  do  to  those  who,  often  without  know- 
ing it,  take  the  place  of  Christ — the  orphan, 
the  widow,  the  stricken.  As  to  that  check  for 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         143 

seventy-five  dollars  sent  to  Angelo,  it  all  goes 
to  charity.  I  am  giving  fifty  of  it  to  Father 
Carney  to  buy  shoes  for  the  poor  boys  and 
poor  girls;  and  the  other  twenty-five  I  am 
holding  for  the  help  of  any  sick  children,  Bob, 
that  you  meet  in  your  work  as  the  Sick  Com- 
mittee." 

"Mrs.  Corcoran,"  said  Bob,  breaking 
into  his  most  radiant  smile,  "you're  just 
like  my  friends  I've  been  talking  about. 
And  you're  most  like  Mrs.  John 
Symmes." 

Then  Mrs.  Corcoran,  glowing  with  pleasure, 
said,  "Bob  Ryan,  if  ever  you  want  a  home, 
come  to  me.  My  children,  every  one  of  them, 
love  you  as  though  you  were  my  own  true 
son." 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Bob,  "that's  just  the 
way  Mrs.  John  Symmes  spoke  to  me.  You 
certainly  are  her  sister.  Here — take  her  pic- 
ture with  you." 

The  tears  came  to  Mrs.  Corcoran's  eyes. 
She  accepted  the  photograph,  and  without 
saying  a  word  (indeed,  she  was  too  full  of 
emotion  for  utterance)  she  caught  Bob's  hand, 
and,  leaning  forward,  imprinted  a  kiss  upon 
his  brow. 

"And  that,"  said  Bob,  deeply  touched,  "is 
what  Mrs.  Symmes  did  to  me  when  she  wished 


144         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

me  good-by.    Mrs.  Symmes  is  one  of  the  best 
-Oh,  gosh!" 

With  which  prosaic  expression  ended  the 
most  sentimental  passage  thus  far  recorded  in 
the  story  of  Bob  Ryan. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Bob  at  the  circus.  A  mysterious  visitor. 
The  Lady  in  Black  once  more. 

THE  most  prosperous  year  in  the  history  of 
St.  Xavier  School  was  drawing  to  a 
close.  The  spirit  there  prevailing  was  due 
largely  to  the  spirit  of  the  St.  Aloysius  So- 
dality and  of  the  Children  of  Mary;  and  the 
spirit  of  these  two  Sodalities  was  in  no  small 
part  due  to  the  influence  and  initiative  of  Bob 
Ryan. 

"I  declare,"  said  Father  Carney,  seated  at 
his  office  desk,  "never  in  my  life — and  it's  gone 
considerably  over  a  half  a  century — have  I 
met  such  a  wonderful  small  boy  as  Bob.  He 
has  the  strength  of  ten,  because  his  heart  is 
pure;  and  he  has  the  heart  of  ten,  because 
there's  something  so  big  about  him.  The  boy 
has  a  giant's  strength,  but  he  does  not  use  it 
like  a  giant.  He  is  gentle,  yet  absolutely  fear- 
less." 

Brother  Cyril,  to  whom  he  was  talking, 
laughed. 

"Did  you  hear  of  his  adventure  at  the  circus 
yesterday  afternoon,  Father?" 

145 


146         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"No;  what  happened?" 

"Well,  I  had  all  the  acolytes  there,  thanks 
to  your  kindness  in  presenting  the  tickets " 

"Don't  put  it  on  me,  Brother,"  interrupted 
Father  Carney.  "It  was  the  thoughtful 
Colonel  Robert  Bridwell  who  sent  them  to  me. 
He's  always  thinking  of  somebody  else's  hap- 
piness. But  please  go  on." 

"Bob  enjoyed  the  clowns  so  much  that  his 
laugh  could  be  heard  above  the  crowd.  He 
was  shiriingly  happy.  After  a  while,  Father, 
all  those  clowns  were  acting  as  though  Bob 
were  the  whole  audience.  Really,  Father,  I 
think  that  boy  is  a  born  leader  of  men.  There 
were  thousands  of  people  there,  but  the  cir- 
cus actors,  after  the  first  two  or  three  num- 
bers, seemed  to  settle  on  Bob.  Even  the  little 
girl  equestrienne,  a  tiny  mite  of  a  thing  with 
a  very  pretty  and  innocent  face,  made  it  a 
point  to  throw  her  smiles  upon  Bob." 

"The  boy,"  observed  Father  Carney,  "has 
magnetism." 

"There  were  some  trained  bears,  comic  fel- 
lows, natural-born  clowns  in  every  movement. 
Bob  went  simply  wild  over  them.  He  seemed 
to  fall  in  love  with  those  bears." 

"He's  a  wonder  with  cats  and  dogs,"  put 
in  Father  Carney.  "Probably  he's  fond  of  all 
animals." 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         147 

"After  a  while,"  the  brother  continued,  "the 
bear  trainer  handed  a  large  black  bear  a  cigar, 
and  said :  'Bruno,  give  this  to  the  most  popu- 
lar man  in  the  audience.'  Just  before  he  issued 
the  orders,  a  man,  evidently  one  of  the  com- 
pany, had  seated  himself  right  in  front  of  Bob. 
He  was  waiting  to  get  that  cigar.  Did  he  get 
it?  He  did  not.  When  the  bear  approached 
the  man  Bob  gave  a  chuckle  and  made  a  slight 
clicking  noise.  And — would  you  believe  it? — 
Bruno  reached  over  the  man's  head  and  gave 
the  cigar  to  Bob.  But  that  wasn't  all. 

"Toward  the  end  of  the  show  one  of  the 
ringmasters  brought  out  a  bucking  broncho, 
and  offered  five  dollars  to  any  boy  who  would 
ride  it  once  around  the  ring.  At  first  about 
one  hundred  boys  seemed  anxious  to  ride  it; 
but  after  six  brave  youths  had  got  on  the  beast, 
and  got  off  much  faster  than  they  got  on,  the 
enthusiasm  died  out.  Among  others  that 
changed  their  mind  was  Johnny  O'Brien.  He 
turned  to  Bob  and  urged  him  to  try  it.  But 
Bob  only  grinned  and  shook  his  head.  Now, 
when  Johnny  O'Brien  wants  something  he 
wants  it  intensely.  He  returned  to  the  charge. 
I  was  sitting  behind  the  two,  and  so  I  could 
hear  easily  what  he  said.  'Bob,'  urged  Johnny, 
'there's  a  family  on  Twelfth  Street  that's  in 
bad.  The  father's  sick,  and  his  oldest  girl  is 


148         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

worse,  and  they're  short  on  the  rent. 
Five  dollars  will  put  them  up  in  business 
again/ 

"Then  Bob  stepped  into  the  ring.  'Jump 
on,  Johnny,  quick,'  said  the  ringmaster.  But 
Bob  walked  up  to  the  broncho,  stroked  its 
head,  and  seemed  to  whisper  something  in  its 
ear.  At  once  some  sort  of  change  came  over 
the  animal.  Then  Bob  jumped  on.  And  did 
the  broncho  hunch  up  and  send  Bob  into  the 
air?  Well,  yes,  it  did;  but  in  a  very  mild  way. 
Then  Bob  began  talking  to  the  beast,  and  the 
next  thing  you  know  that  broncho  trotted 
around  the  ring  like  a  family  pony." 

"I've  heard  before  of  Bob's  power  over  ani- 
mals. They  say  he's  a  little  St.  Francis  of 
Assisi;  and  I  believe  it.  Do  you  know, 
Brother  Cyril,  that  I  envy  that  boy's  kindness 
and  power  of  love?  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  deal 
with  people  as  he  does.  He  never  gets  fidgety 
or  nervous  or  irritable  as  I  do.  Why,  I'm  a 
priest,  and  a  priest's  power  for  good  is  simply 
vast.  But  if  I  had  his  big  heart  I'd  be  able  to 
do  more  good  with  less  means  than  any  man  in 
Cincinnati." 

"The  fame  of  his  work,  Father,  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Sick  Committee  has  gone  outside  our 
parish.  There  are  many  families  that  when  a 
child  is  sick  send  first  for  Bob,  secondly  for 


HIS  LUCKIEST  TEAR         149 

the  priest,  and  if  that  doesn't  stop  the  sickness 
they  call  in  the  doctor." 

"I'm  afraid,"  pursued  Father  Carney,  "that 
he'll  not  be  with  us  long." 

"You  mean  he's  going  to  St.  Xavier's  next 
year?" 

"No;  I  think  we're  going  to  lose  Bob. 
There's  some  sort  of  a  mystery  in  his  life,  and 
I  feel  it  in  my  bones  that  the  mystery  is  soon 
to  be  cleared.  I  know  the  boy's  story  and  I've 
kept  track  of  him  all  this  year,  and  I'm  almost 
certain  that  something  strange  is  going  to 
occur." 

"By  the  way,  Lucille  has  written  to  Bob 
several  times  lately  to  be  prepared  for  a  big 
surprise.  Do  you  think  that  has  any  bearing 
on  Bob's  case?" 

"Yes;  and  Tom  Temple  has  written  to  the 
same  effect,"  answered  the  priest.  "And  I 
know  that  Tom  takes  a  tremendous  interest  in 
Bob's  case.  All  the  same,  Bob  himself  doesn't 
seem  to  worry." 

"He's  too  busy  to  worry,"  said  Brother 
Cyril.  "What  with  his  Sodality  work  and  his 
studies  and  keeping  up  with  his  friends  he's  on 
the  go  all  the  time." 

"And  how  is  he  getting  on  in  class, 
Brother?" 

"He's  easily  first.     There's  only  one  boy 


150         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

who  can  touch  him,  and  that's  Albert  Cor- 
coran. Albert,  in  fact,  is  better  than  Bob  in 
arithmetic.  But  in  English,  Bob  is  the  best 
boy  I've  ever  had  in  the  eighth  grade.  He'll 
make  a  writer  some  day.  Indeed,  I  should  not 
be  at  all  surprised  if  he  should  become  a  poet." 

"A  man,"  observed  Father  Carney,  "who 
gets  poetry  into  his  life  may  not  have  time  to 
get  it  into  his  writings.  He  certainly  has  the 
poetic  heart ' 

"Which,"  quoted  the  Brother,  "is  more  than 
all  poetic  art.  Yes,  Father,  if  I  were  a  betting 
man,  I'd  be  willing  to  stake  everything  I  own 
or  expect  to  own  on  Bob's  coming  out  first  in 
the  contest  for  the  scholarship  at  St.  Xavier 
College." 

"How  are  your  boys  getting  along  in  their 
preparation?" 

"They're  going  too  hard,  Father.  Never 
in  all  my  years  of  teaching  did  I  have  an  easier 
time.  Those  boys,  when  I  give  them  work, 
just  eat  it  up.  And  Bob  is  the  most  eager  of 
all.  His  eagerness  is  catching.  Every  day 
after  our  extra  hour  of  class  I  have  to  drive 
them  out.  It's  my  happiest  year  of  teaching." 

"Brother,"  said  Father  Carney,  "sometimes 
when  I  step  within  your  class  I  almost  envy 
you.  It's  simply  wonderful  to  me  to  see  how 
eager  and  alert  and  jolly  and  care- free  your 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         151 

boys  are.  They  are  so  busy  that  one  almost 
feels  they  are  living  ideal  lives.  They  have  so 
many  good  habits  that  they've  no  time  to  take 
up  bad  ones." 

"Thank  you,  Father;  you  have  paid  me  a 
great  compliment.  Well,  in  a  few  weeks  the 
contest  will  come  off.  I  hear  that  there  will  be 
about  two  hundred  boys  to  take  part,  the  pick 
of  the  eighth-grade  boys  in  all  our  Cincinnati, 
Covington,  and  Newport  parishes.  No  mat- 
ter ;  you  just  keep  your  eye  on  our  boys.  Good- 
by,  Father." 

On- that  very  afternoon,  Bob,  on  arriving  at 
his  room  after  a  very  strenuous  class-day, 
found  his  landlady  awaiting  him.  She  had 
the  air  of  one  with  an  important  communica- 
tion. 

"Nobody  sick,  ma'am?"  inquired  Bob. 

"No,  Bob;  but  there's  been  a  visitor  to  see 
you." 

"Not  Mrs.  Corcoran?" 

"I  don't  call  Mrs.  Corcoran  a  visitor.  Why, 
isn't  she  here  three  times  a  week,  going 
through  everything  in  your  room,  and  reading 
all  your  letters?" 

Here  it  must  be  set  down  that  Mrs.  Jones, 
Bob's  landlady,  was  a  most  excellent  woman. 
She  took  the  greatest  interest  in  Bob,  and  she 
gave  what  time  she  could  afford  from  her  mul- 


152         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

tifarious  duties  to  seeing  to  his  comfort  and 
happiness.  But  Mrs.  Jones  was  a  much  over- 
burdened woman;  and  many  a  time  she  had 
left  many  a  thing  undone  for  the  boy  because 
her  more  intimate  duties  absorbed  her.  So 
when  Mrs.  Corcoran,  whose  quick  eye  no 
household  duty  undone  could  escape,  had  come 
to  her  and  begged  as  a  favor  for  permission  to 
visit  Bob's  room  three  or  four  times  a  week 
and  go  over  the  boy's  clothes  and  linen  and 
furniture,  Mrs.  Jones,  because  she  was  a  noble 
woman,  gave  a  willing  consent;  but  because 
she  was  also  just  a  woman  she  never  quite  for- 
gave Mrs.  Corcoran.  Nor  could  she  speak  of 
that  grateful  friend  of  Bob's  without  saying 
something  unkind.  It  was  hard  for  Bob  to 
understand. 

"I'm  sure  she  doesn't  read  my  letters,  Mrs. 
Jones,"  returned  Bob  gently.  "She's  not  that 
kind.  For  that  matter,  if  she  wanted  to  read 
them,  she'd  be  welcome.  In  fact,  next  time  I 
see  her  I'm  going  to  tell  her  she  can  read  any- 
thing in  my  room." 

"And  have  the  whole  parish  talking  about 
your  private  affairs?"  protested  Mrs.  Jones 
indignantly.  "Don't  you  do  any  such  thing, 
Bob  Ryan.  She's  got  enough  to  talk  about 
now  from  what  she  sees  in  your  room,  without 
her  going  and  reading  your  private  letters. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         153 

She's  got  a  tongue,  Mrs.  Corcoran  has.  All 
women  have." 

It  was  difficult  for  Bob  to  follow  this  bit  of 
what  is  called  feminine  logic.  Here  was  a 
good  woman  declaring  in  one  breath  that  Mrs. 
Corcoran  read  all  his  letters  and  in  the  other 
begging  him  not  to  give  her  permission,  as  she 
would  be  sure  to  make  the  contents  known  to 
every  one.  Bob  did  not  as  yet  know  that  jeal- 
ousy plays  the  mischief  with  logic. 

"She's  a  splendid  woman  and  you  know  it, 
ma'am,"  continued  Bob. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  saying  anything  against  her," 
answered  the  woman  of  the  house.  "But 
there's  a  lot  of  other  people  who  would  do 
what  she  does  for  you,  and  do  it  just  as  well, 
and  see  to  your  buttons  and  put  your  things  in 
order;  and  then  they  wouldn't  go  boasting 
about  it  all  over  the  street." 

"But,  Mrs.  Jones,  I'm  sure  she  doesn't  do 
that." 

"Oh,  you're  young  and  innocent.  But  I  have 
eyes  and  ears,  and  Alice  O'Shea  knows  that 
she  comes  here,  and  so  does  Johnny  O'Brien, 
and  Elizabeth  Reno.  I've  heard  them  talk 
about  it." 

"Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  the  boy,  still 
smiling.  "Of  course  they  know  it.  So  do 
their  mothers  and  their  sisters  and  their  cousins 


154         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

and  their  aunts.  Everybody  on  the  street 
knows  it." 

"Just  what  I  said,"  cried  Mrs.  Jones  tri- 
umphantly. 

"Yes;  but  I  told  them  so  myself,  ma'am. 
Why,  there's  no  secret  about  it." 

Mrs.  Jones  laughed  somewhat  bitterly. 

"Secret!"  she  echoed,  "I  should  say  not. 
That  woman  keep  a  secret!  Oh,  you  don't 
understand  people,  Bob." 

"Maybe  I  don't;  but  just  the  same,  Mrs. 
Corcoran  told  me  not  to  talk  about  her  caring 
for  my  room.  She  wanted  me  to  keep  it  quiet ; 
but  I  felt  so  obliged  to  her  that  I  just  had  to 
let  it  out.  She's  not  to  blame." 

Mrs.  Jones  tossed  her  head  and  sniffed. 

"Much  you  know  about  human  nature,"  she 
stated  with  a  tone  of  finality.  "Some  women 
talk  about  everything." 

"I  guess  I  know  very  little,"  commented  the 
puzzled  youth.  "But  who  was  the  visitor?" 

"Bob,  it  was  some  lady." 

"Some  lady?" 

"Yes,  some  lady  that  I  never  laid  eyes  upon 
before.  And  there's  no  one  upon  the  street 
that  knows  her." 

"Why,  did  all  the  people  on  the  street  see 
her?" 

"Oh,  no;  but  after  she  left  I  went  around 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         155 

and  described  her,  and  they  all  said  she  was  a 
perfect  stranger." 

"Oh!"  cried  Bob,  realizing  with  a  suppressed 
grin  that  everybody  on  Pioneer  Street  was 
discussing  his  visitor.  "Tell  me  all  about  her, 
please." 

"She  had  beautiful  grey  eyes,  Bob.  Her 
hair  was  natural." 

"Natural!"  cried  the  boy. 

"Yes,  natural.  Dull  brown  with  little  glints 
of  gold  in  it.  Her  complexion  was  natu- 
ral- 

"Natural!"  cried  Bob  once  more. 

"Yes,  natural.  She  had  beautiful  teeth. 
They  were " 

"Natural?"  put  in  Bob. 

"Yes,"  came  the  unsmiling  but  enthusiastic 
answer,  "her  teeth  were  natural,  too.  She  had 
a  beautiful  mouth,  small  but  curved  like  a 
Cupid's  bow.  There  was  a  delicate  color,  like 
that  of  a  peach,  upon  her  cheeks.  That  color, 
Bob,  was  natural." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Bob.  "Of  course  it  was 
natural;  what  would  you  expect  it  to  be?" 

Mrs.  Jones  cast  a  pitying  smile  upon  Bob, 
and  went  on  to  tell  how  the  lady's  hair  was 
dressed.  Bob  listened  without  comprehend- 
ing. Then  Mrs.  Jones  described  the  shoes  the 
visitor  wore,  out  of  which  description  Bob 


156         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

gleaned  the  information  that  there  were  shoes 
on  both  feet,  and  extremely  small,  size  one  and 
one-half.  Every  woman  is  a  dressmaker  at 
heart.  Mrs.  Jones,  then,  having  disposed  of 
the  shoes,  dilated  upon  the  strange  lady's  dress. 
She  spoke  for  five  minutes.  Women  on  the 
street  had  already  heard  the  same  description 
and  had  listened  with  delight.  Bob,  noble 
youth,  lent  an  ear,  too,  and  concealed  his  suf- 
ferings. He  was  listening  to  an  unknown 
tongue.  The  hat  and  veil  came  in  for  their 
share  of  description. 

"And,"  continued  Mrs.  Jones,  "when  I  told 
her  you  weren't  in  she  seemed  to  be  so  dis- 
appointed." 

"Did  you  tell  her  to  come  back?" 

"No;  she  said  she  couldn't;  but,"  here  Mrs. 
Jones  reached  a  hand  into  the  bosom  of  her 
shirt-waist  and  promptly  brought  out  an  en- 
velope, a  small  square  envelope,  dainty,  though 
somewhat  rumpled,  "she  asked  me  to  give  you 
this." 

Bob  tore  the  flap  open,  pulled  out  the  en- 
closure and  read: 

To  Robert  Ryan:  The  enclosed  ten  dollars 
is  for  flowers  for  sick  little  boys.  Pray  for 
the  donor.  M.  L. 

Then  Bob,  catching  his  breath,  gazed  now 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         157 

upon  the  delicate  handwriting,  now  upon  the 
crisp  ten-dollar  note. 

"It's  ten  dollars  for  flowers  for  the  sick,"  he 
cried  jubilantly.  "Isn't  that  fine?  But  she 
doesn't  sign  her  name." 

"No,"  assented  Mrs.  Jones  with  uncon- 
cealed disappointment. 

"I  wonder  who  she  was?"  mused  the  boy. 

"I've  described  her  as  well  as  I  could,  Bob." 

Suddenly  the  boy's  eyes  gleamed. 

"Say,  Mrs.  Jones,  was  she  dressed  in  black?" 

"Why,  Bob  Ryan,  I  spent  ten  minutes  in 
telling  you  that." 

"Oh,  you  did!  And  did  she  look  sort  of 
sad?" 

"That's  so;  she  did.  Just  like  she'd  lost  her 
husband." 

"And  does  she  live  outside  the  city?" 

"She  lives  in  Hamilton,"  came  the  answer. 
"She  had  to  catch  a  train." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that?"  cried  Bob. 
"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  I  missed  her.  Why,  Mrs. 
Jones,  that's  the  Lady  in  Black." 

"The  Lady  in  Black!"  echoed  Mrs.  Jones. 
"And  who  may  be  the  Lady 

Mrs.  Jones  found  it  useless  to  ask  her  ques- 
tion; for  Bob  had  run  up  the  stairs  and  bolted 
into  his  room,  where,  with  his  chin  buried  in 
his  right  hand,  he  meditated  upon  the  mystery 


158         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

of  the  lady  whose  love  for  the  sick  and  friend- 
less had  once  more  come  into  his  life. 

Mrs.  Jones  meantime  had  stepped  into  the 
street,  and  before  Bob's  meditations  were 
ended  the  ten-dollar  note,  the  mysterious 
woman,  and  her  missive  with  the  initials  were 
topics  of  discussion  in  ten  different  homes. 


CHAPTER  XII 

So  near  and  yet  so  far!    The  first  meeting. 

QUDDENLY  Bob  jumped  to  his  feet.  There 
O  had  flashed  through  his  mind  the  thought 
that  it  was  Thursday,  his  regular  confession 
day,  and  that  if  he  hurried  over  to  the  church 
he  could  catch  his  confessor  before  six  o'clock, 
the  dinner  hour  for  both. 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon.  The  street  was 
bright  with  the  latest  rays  of  a  glorious  sun; 
there  was  a  faint  odor  of  flowers  in  the  air;  a 
bird,  lost  in  a  great  city,  sang  his  song  from  a 
telephone  wire ;  and,  best  of  all,  the  street  was 
a  thing  of  joy  with  the  sweet  cries  and  happy 
laughter  and  swift  movement  and  artless  prat- 
tle of  boys  and  girls — as  nice  a  set  of  children, 
Bob  fondly  meditated,  as  one  could  find  from 
Oakland  to  New  York. 

Prominent  among  them  were  Alice  O'Shea 
and  her  dearest  friend  in  the  world,  Elizabeth 
Reno.  The  two  were  walking  up  and  down 
the  street,  not  without  some  show  of  stateli- 
ness,  marred  somewhat,  it  must  be  confessed, 
by  the  fact  that  each  had  a  fast-disappearing 
ice-cream  cone.  They  were  the  belles  of  the 

street,  the  belles,  that  is,  of  the  extremely 

159 


160        HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

younger  set;  and  they  were  dressed  accord- 
ingly. Alice's  curls — "almost  natural" — set  off 
her  features  to  the  best  advantage.  Dressed  in 
white,  dashed  with  touches  of  blue,  she  looked 
like  a  princess  such  as  one  would  see  looking 
out  from  magic  casements  in  joy  land.  Dark- 
haired  Elizabeth,  with  her  clear-cut  features, 
her  large  and  expectant  eyes,  and  her  slow 
smile,  dressed,  allowing  for  a  dash  of  red,  to  a 
dot  like  her  dearest  friend,  was  a  splendid  foil 
to  her  companion. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Bob?"  inquired 
Alice. 

"I'm  going  to  get  shriven." 

"Is  it  good  to  eat?"  continued  the  young 
lady. 

"I  mean,"  laughed  the  boy,  "that  I'm  going 
to  confession." 

"We  went  this  afternoon,  early,"  said  Eliz- 
abeth. "And,"  she  added  proudly,  "we  both 
got  up  early  last  Saturday  and  went  to  com- 
munion." 

"And,"  put  in  Alice,  "we're  going  again 
next  Saturday." 

"Yes" — here  Elizabeth  took  up  the  won- 
drous strain — "and  we  intend  to  keep  it  up 
just  as  long  as  the  fine  weather  lasts." 

"That's  fine!"  said  Bob. 

"And  do  you  know,  Bob,"  continued  Alice, 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         161 

"that  we're  all  friends  on  this  street?  I  speak 
to  all  the  girls  now,  and  so  does  Elizabeth." 

"It's  been  going  on  that  way  for  eight 
weeks,"  explained  Elizabeth,  her  eyes  as  she 
spoke  betraying  the  wonder  of  it  all;  "and  my 
sister  Catharine  has  got  us  all  so  interested 
in  the  Ladies  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  Sec- 
tion. They  say  she'll  be  the  next  prefect." 

"Say,  Bob,"  Alice  inquired  with  tense  in- 
terest, "do  you  think  there's  a  chance  for  me 
to  be  prefect  some  day?" 

Bob  was  about  to  answer,  when  the  young 
ladies,  screaming  with  excitement  and  forget- 
ting that  they  were  dressed  for  the  evening, 
darted  down  the  street.  Johnny  O'Brien  had 
just  opened  a  box  of  candy  for  the  benefit  of 
his  many  friends. 

Bob  went  on,  feeling  intensely  happy. 
Spring  and  peace  and  love  and  kindness — 
were  they  not  all  about  him?  The  chimes  of 
St.  Xavier  Church  were  announcing  to  Cin- 
cinnati that  the  time  was  half  after  five  when 
Bob  reached  the  corner  of  Sixth  and  Syca- 
more. A  car  had  stopped  to  take  on  passen- 
gers. As  the  car  started,  the  boy,  turning 
from  Sycamore  to  Sixth,  glanced  casually  in 
its  direction.  From  the  arms  of  a  woman  who 
had  just  got  on  slipped  a  small  package.  In 
the  very  moment  that  Bob  saw  the  mishap  he 


162         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

took  action.  He  ran  into  the  street,  picked  up 
up  the  package,  and,  still  running,  caught  up 
with  the  car. 

"Here  you  are,  ma'am,"  he  cried,  handing 
it  to  the  lady. 

"Oh,  thank  you  so  much  I" 

Bob  was  thrilled  with  the  sweetness  of  the 
voice;  and,  for  the  first  time,  he  looked  into 
its  owner's  face.  The  face  and  the  voice  be- 
longed together.  There  was  sweetness  in 
both — and  sadness.  As  the  car  moved  on  the 
woman  turned  and  looked  at  Bob.  Suddenly 
her  eyes  lighted  up,  she  drew  a  deep  breath, 
and  a  smile  came  upon  her  fair  and  delicate 
features  which  dispelled  as  though  by  magic 
every  trace  of  sorrow.  No  less  electrical  was 
the  effect  on  Bob.  He  smiled  in  return  and 
waved  a  hand,  while  there  surged  through  him 
a  feeling  of  vague  longing.  It  all  happened 
in  a  few  seconds.  The  face,  the  lovely  face, 
the  face  with  an  indescribable  something  which 
stirred  the  boy's  whole  being  profoundly,  was 
gone. 

Bob  entered  the  church  wondering.  He 
made  his  confession,  and  in  due  time  went  once 
more  into  the  pure  air  of  sunset,  still  wonder- 
ing. 

Suddenly  he  paused  on  the  church  steps  and 
gave  a  gasp. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         163 

"By  George!"  he  exclaimed.  "Why  didn't 
I  jump  on  that  car  and  introduce  myself? 
Why  didn't  I  notice  her  dress?  I  must  have 
noticed  it  or  I  wouldn't  know  it  now.  It  was 
the  Lady  in  Black." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

In  which  chanty  interferes  with  study,  Bob 
is  awaiting  surprising  news,  and  the  great 
examination  day  is  at  hand. 

IT  was  the  eve  of  the  great  examination.  Bob 
Ryan  and  Albert  Corcoran  were  met  to  do 
their  last  bit  of  preparation.  Albert  was  the 
picture  of  good  health.  Bob  looked  tired,  as 
his  friend  noticed. 

"What's  the  matter,  Bob?  You  don't  look 
like  yourself." 

"I  don't  feel  like  myself,  Albert.  There's  a 
little  boy  on  Pendleton  Street,  one  of  the 
nicest  little  boys  you  ever  met.  He's  in  the 
fifth  grade  and  the  brightest  in  the  class." 

"You  mean  Charlie  Fitzpatrick,  the  new 
altar-boy?" 

"That's  the  boy.  You  see,  I  helped  Charlie 
learn  his  Mass  prayers,  and  we  got  to  know 
each  other  pretty  well.  He's  so  frail  and  deli- 
cate it  used  to  make  me  feel  ashamed  of  my- 
self. I've  only  known  him  a  few  weeks — not 
more  than  three — and  he's  one  of  the  best 
friends " 

A  giggle  stopped  Bob's  flow  of  language. 

"Well,  he  is,"  pursued  Bob  stoutly.  "Yes- 
terday, early  in  the  evening,  his  little  sister, 

164 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         165 

Mary,  who  in  her  way  is  just  as  fine  as  he  is, 
came  running  here  to  tell  me  that  he  was  awful 
sick,  and  wanted  me  to  come  and  see  him.  Of 
course  I  went." 

"Don't  I  know  it?"  put  in  Albert.  "When 
I  came  here  to  go  over  the  cube  root  with  you 
I  found  your  room  empty.  I  stayed  for  two 
hours." 

"Awfully  sorry,"  said  Bob. 

"You  needn't  be;  I  studied  just  the  same, 
and  went  home  ready  for  any  examination. 
But  what  about  little  Charlie?" 

"Say,  Albert,  it  was  awful.  I  never  saw 
anybody  in  such  pain.  I  stayed  with  him  till 
away  after  ten;  and  it  broke  me  all  up  to  see 
how  terribly  that  little  fellow  could  suffer  and 
keep  on  smiling.  When  I  left  him  he  was  feel- 
ing ever  so  much  better.  But  I  tell  you,  Al- 
bert, I  wasn't.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  sick ;  and 
I  couldn't  sleep  for  over  three  hours,  thinking 
of  that  poor  little  chap." 

"No  wonder  you  look  all  in." 

"I  wish  I  were  sick  in  his  place,"  said  Bob. 
"I'm  strong.  I  could  stand  it.  But  he  is  so 
frail,  and  yet  so  brave.  Father  Carney 
brought  him  communion  this  morning.  The 
poor  kid,  his  sister  told  me,  was  burning  up 
with  thirst  all  night;  but  he  wouldn't  touch  a 
drop  of  water  after  it  struck  twelve." 


166         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Oh,  that  reminds  me,"  said  Albert. 
"Father  Carney  said  a  funny  thing  the  other 
day.  He  said  that  when  he  first  took  charge 
of  the  school  years  ago,  children,  when  they 
took  very  sick,  always  asked  for  a  priest  to 
hear  their  confession;  but  now  that  frequent 
communion  has  come  in  they  never  say  a  word 
about  confession,  but  ask  for  a  priest  to  bring 
them  Holy  Communion." 

"Little  children  are  so  interesting  1"  ob- 
served Bob  Ryan,  age  fourteen.  "But,"  he 
added,  "some  grown  people  are  very  interest- 
ing, too.  "I've  got  the  funniest  letters  from 
Tom  and  Lucille.  Tom  is  in  New  York  and 
Lucille  is  in  Iowa.  Both  of  them  tell  me  that 
next  time  I  hear  from  them,  and  it  won't  be 
very  long,  I  will  hear  the  most  wonderful  news. 
And  both  of  them  want  me  to  pray  hard  for 
their  intention  till  July  the  fifth.  I  wonder 
what's  up?" 

"July  the  fifth!"  exclaimed  Angelo,  jump- 
ing to  his  feet.  "Why,  don't  you  see?" 

"See  what?  They  want  me  to  offer  up  my 
communion  for  a  special  intention  on  that 
day." 

"Bob,  what  an  owl  you  are.  Don't 
you  remember  what  you  told  me?  July 
the  nfth  is  the  day  your  father  threw  you 
out!' 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         167 

"By  George!"  said  Bob.  "I  never  thought 
of  that." 

"And — '  continued  Angelo,  "he  told  you 
not  to  dare  come  back  to  Dubuque  for  one 
year.  On  July  the  fifth  your  year  is  up.  Bob, 
I'll  bet  anything  that  Tom  Temple,  who  has 
been  studying  your  case,  has  found  out  some- 
thing, or  expects  to  find  out  something  on  that 
date." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Bob.  "Anyhow,  my  year 
will  be  up,  and  if  I  can  afford  it  I'm  going 
back  to  Dubuque  to  see  all  my  friends." 

"And  when  you  get  to  Dubuque,  Bob,  how 
long  do  you  intend  staying?" 

"That  depends,"  Bob  made  answer.  "If 
I  win  a  scholarship  I'm  coming  back  here, 
even  if  I  have  to  tramp  it.  I  suppose  I 
can  get  some  work  to  do  after  school  hours. 
I'll  have  to.  I'm  going  to  be  poor  next 
year." 

"You'll  stay  with  us,"  cried  Albert.  "My 
mother  wants  it ;  my  brother  Angelo  wants  it ; 
and,  as  for  my  sisters,  they  all  want  it;  and 
little  Rosie  is  crying  for  it." 

"It's  mighty  nice  of  your  mother,  Albert," 
returned  Bob,  "but  I  can't  do  it.  Every- 
body's been  helping  me,  and  I'm  afraid,  if  it 
keeps  on,  I'll  be  pauperized.  It  seems  to  me 
I'm  big  enough  and  strong  enough  to  make 


168         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

my  own  way.  It  spoils  a  chap  to  be  relying 
on  his  friends  for  everything.  Anyhow,  I 
may  not  win  the  scholarship;  and  if  I 
don't- 

"Well,  what  if  you  don't?" 

"Why,  I  think  I'll  stay  in  Dubuque  and  try 
to  earn  my  living  there.  That's  my  home,  and 
I  feel  that  I  ought  to  be  there." 

"Did  my  mother  show  you  the  letter  she  got 
from  Mrs.  John  Symmes,  Bob?" 

"Yes;  and  I  got  one,  too.  Mrs.  Symmes 
says  she's  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world. 
She's  so  proud  of  you  and  Angelo  and  your 
sisters.  And  she  thinks  that  it's  most  extraor- 
dinary that  I  should  find  in  Cincinnati  her  sis- 
ter, and  that  I  should  be  such  a  close  friend  of 
your  family.  And  best  of  all,  she's  going  to 
return  to  the  Church  she  was  baptized  in.  It's 
funny,  Albert,  that  I  didn't  notice  from  the 
start  how  much  alike  your  mother  and  Mrs. 
Symmes  were.  When  I  saw  your  mother  first 
I  had  a  feeling  that  there  was  something  fa- 
miliar about  her;  but  I  couldn't  make  out 
where  it  came  in." 

"In  that  letter  my  mother  got,"  said  Albert, 
"she  begs  her  to  come  and  pay  her  a  visit.  Mrs. 
Symmes  wants  my  mother  to  bring  on  all  the 
children  and  stay  the  summer.  And  it  won't 
cost  my  mother  a  cent,  either." 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         169 

"That  will  be  fine.  I  hope  your  mother  will 
go" 

"So  do  I,  Bob;  my  mother  hasn't  had  a  va- 
cation in  twenty  years ;  and  she's  pretty  tired. 
This  past  year  has  been  very  hard  on  her.  I 
was  sick  for  two  months,  and  Angelo  for  ten 
weeks,  and  my  father  died.  It  was  just  one 
thing  after  another.  We  all  want  her  to  go, 
even  if  the  rest  of  us  stay  home.  But  she  can't 
make  up  her  mind.  Last  night  she  said  that  if 
I  win  the  scholarship  she'll  go,  and  she'll  take 
me  along  for  a  good  rest." 

Bob  cupped  his  chin,  supporting  his  right 
elbow  with  his  left  hand. 

"Say,"  he  said  presently.  "Suppose  I  win, 
you  lose  that  trip." 

"That's  what  I  said  to  my  mother.  And 
she  said  that  since  St.  Xavier  School  could 
win  only  one  scholarship  she'd  go  provided  my 
average  was  among  the  first  five." 

"Good,"  cried  Bob.  "And  I  think  you'll 
come  first,  anyhow." 

"You're  the  only  one  who  does  think  that 
way,  Bob.  Brother  Cyril  thinks  you'll  make 
the  best  examination  of  any  boy  he  has  ever 
taught,  and  all  the  fellows  feel  sure  that  you'll 
come  out  first." 

"I  think,  Albert,  that  I'm  pretty  well  ready 
for  anything  except  that  confounded  old  cube 


170         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

brute.  It  is  a  brute,  and  no  mistake.  Sup- 
pose we  go  over  that.  You  know  it ;  and  then 
we'll  run  over  the  last  ten  pages  of  our  Eng- 
lish grammar." 

Albert  did  his  best  to  initiate  Bob  into  the 
inner  workings  of  extracting  the  cube  root. 
Bob,  though  he  tried  to  listen,  had  no  little 
difficulty  in  keeping  his  eyes  open. 

"There  1"  said  Albert  after  twenty  minutes 
of  figuring  and  explanation.  "Do  you  see  it 
now?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Albert  turned  his 
eyes  upon  Bob's  face.  Bob,  sitting  upright  in 
his  chair  and  with  an  air  of  attention,  was  fast 
asleep. 

"Hey,  Bob!" 

"Oh!"  cried  Bob,  jumping  up  and  shaking 
his  head.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Albert.  I 
didn't  know  I  was  asleep.  How  far  did  we 
get  with  that  sum?" 

Albert,  with  a  laugh,  began  his  explanations 
once  more,  and  Bob,  pinching  himself  from 
time  to  time  to  keep  awake,  paid  close  atten- 
tion. 

"Now,  Bob,"  asked  Albert  presently,  "do 
you  get  it?" 

"I  think  so,"  returned  Bob.  "There's  one 
little  point,  though,  I'm  not  quite  so  sure 
of." 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         171 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  timid  knock  at 
the  door. 

"Come  in,"  shouted  Bob.  "Why,"  he  went 
on  as  a  rather  frightened  little  girl  stood  re- 
vealed at  the  threshold,  "is  that  you,  Mary 
Fitzpatrick?" 

"Please,  Bob,  my  brother's  been  took  bad 
again;  and  he  wants  you.  He's  awfully  sick, 
and  he  wants  you." 

Bob  forgot  all  about  the  examination. 

"Say,  Albert,  suppose  you  come  along,  too. 
I've  just  got  to  go." 

"All  right,  Bob;  and  when  we  come  back 
we  can  settle  that  little  matter  of  the  cube 
root." 

The  three  accordingly  hurried  out  into  the 
night. 

Their  visit  did  great  good.  Bob  succeeded 
in  consoling  and  strengthening  the  little  suf- 
ferer. The  paroxysm  of  pain  passed;  and  at 
eleven  o'clock  the  two  boys  set  back  for  Pio- 
neer Street. 

But  there  was  no  more  studying  that  night. 
Bob,  thoroughly  exhausted,  excused  himself 
and  went  promptly  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Bob's  failure,  the  comments  of  Mr.  Latv- 
ian thereon,  and  the  unhappy  results. 

ON  the  following  day,  a  few  minutes  before 
noon,  there  was,  for  the  first  time  since 
the  day  after  the  Christmas  holidays,  deep 
gloom  in  the  eighth-grade  classroom.  The 
twenty-four  boys  who  had  represented  the 
class  in  the  interparochial  contest  were  just 
returned,  looking  like  anything  but  victors. 
Bob  Ryan  had  lost  his  usual  smile. 

"Well,  boys,"  said  Brother  Cyril,  "how 
were  the  questions?" 

"Rotten,"  answered  Edward  Bolan. 

"Some  of  them  were  pretty  hard,"  added 
Albert  Corcoran.  "There  was  a  very  hard 
sentence  to  parse  and  analyze,  and  I  just  hope 
I  got  it.  The  arithmetic  was  dead  easy." 

A  protesting  growl  arose  from  twenty-three 
throats. 

"I  guess,"  said  Bob,  whose  eyes  were  heavy, 
"that  it  was  easy  for  Albert.  Anything  in 
arithmetic  is  easy  to  him.  But  one  of  the 
problems  nearly  broke  my  head." 

"One  of  'em,"  cried  Bolan,  "just  broke  my 
heart.  I  left  the  old  thing  out." 

172 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         173 

"Did  you  manage  to  get  it,  Bob?"  asked  the 
brother. 

"I  don't  know.  Brother.  I  believe  I  got 
most  of  it:  but  I'm  not  sure  about  one  part." 

"And  how  about  the  composition?" 

"Oh/  said  Bob,  "we  were  told  to  write  a 
page  and  a  half  or  two  about  'An  Early 
Spring  Morning  in  the  Country.' ' 

"That's  just  your  line,  Bob." 

"Yes;  but  somehow  I  felt  heavy  and  tired, 
and  I  never  knew  before  how  hard  it  was  to 
think.  I  wrote  a  page  and  a  half;  but  I  think 
it  was  punk.'' 

Deeper  grew  the  gloom  upon  the  entire  class. 

"Let's  do  something  to  cheer  ourselves  up," 
observed  a  wag.  "There  was  a  funeral  at  St. 
Xavier's  at  ten  o'clock.  Brother,  if  we  took 
a  car  right  now  we  might  get  to  the  cemetery 
in  time  for  the  burial.  I'm  sure  a  little  thing 
like  that  would  lighten  the  gloom." 

Bob  was  the  only  one  present  to  laugh 
heartily. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Brother  Cyril,  "you  needn't 
be  discouraged,  boys.  After  all,  it's  better  to 
deserve  to  succeed  than  to  succeed." 

The  class  received  this  information  with  un- 
broken mournfulness. 

"You've  done  your  duty,"  continued  Brother 
Cyril;  "and  that's  the  thing  that  counts." 


174         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Say,  Brother,"  said  the  wag,  no  suspicion 
of  a  smile  upon  his  countenance,  "I  don't  see 
that  just  now.  I'm  awfully  stupid  to-day. 
So  are  all  of  us.  Would  you  mind  making  a 
diagram  on  the  board,  so  we  could  all  under- 
stand it " 

The  Brother  laughed.  The  effect  was  as 
though  a  burst  of  sunshine  had  broken  the 
gloom  of  a  cloudy  day. 

"Boys,  boys,"  pleaded  Brother  Cyril, 
"don't  take  on  so.  By  the  way,  how  did  the 
boys  from  the  other  schools  feel  after  the  ex- 
amination?" 

"They  looked  just  as  sad  as  we  did,"  an- 
swered Bob. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  brother,  much  consoled. 
"Did  they  seem  to  be  very  gloomy?" 

"Gloomy  isn't  the  word  for  it,  Brother 
Cyril,"  Albert  made  answer. 

"They  looked,"  said  the  wag,  "as  they'd 
just  spent  a  week  in  the  trenches  and  were 
going  back  again." 

"Some  of  them  that  I  saw,"  added  Bolan, 
"looked  as  though  they  had  just  been  through 
an  earthquake  and  come  out  just  alive  enough 
to  know  they  weren't  killed." 

A  great  joy  was  growing  on  Brother  Cyril's 
face. 

"Did     they     seem     to     feel     absolutely 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         175 

wretched?"  he  asked  with  the  light  of  rosy 
hope  in  his  eyes. 

"They  did,"  roared  the  twenty-four. 

Whereupon  everybody  present  broke  into 
smiles.  The  gloom  was  dispelled;  a  holiday 
spirit  prevailed,  and  Brother  Cyril,  having 
first  consulted  with  the  head  Brother,  an- 
nounced that  they  would  have  a  picnic  at 
Burnet  Woods  the  next  day. 

When,  a  few  minutes  later,  the  twenty-four 
contestants  filed  into  the  school-yard,  each 
carried  himself  as  though  he  were  a  wedding 
guest. 

A  week  passed  by  before  the  result  of  the 
contest  was  announced.  On  the  morning  of 
July  first  all  the  contestants,  two  hundred  and 
eighteen  in  number,  assembled  in  the  Memorial 
Hall  of  St.  Xavier  College. 

On  the  stage  stood  Father  Feeley,  the  vice- 
president  of  the  college,  and  Father  Dalton, 
one  of  the  professors. 

"Boys,"  began  Father  Feeley,  "I've  no 
doubt  that  most  of  you  thought  the  examina- 
tion was  very  severe.  It  was.  We  made  it  a 
searching  examination,  because  we  had  reason 
to  believe  that  you  were  the  brightest  set  of 
contestants  that  had  ever  entered  into  our 
scholarship  contest.  Had  we  made  the  ex- 
amination an  easier  one,  we  feared  that  it 


176         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

would  be  difficult  to  find  out  the  winners. 
There  would  be,  we  thought,  too  many  ties. 
Now,  the  event  would  seem  to  justify  our 
judgment.  Hard  as  the  examination  has  been, 
there  are  two  almost  tied  for  the  first  place, 
and  three  for  the  fifth  place." 

At  this  announcement  many  of  the  boys  be- 
gan to  bob  up  and  down  in  their  seats  like 
corks  upon  troubled  waters. 

"I  see,"  continued  Father  Feeley,  "that  you 
are  all  bursting  to  get  results.  Before  I  pro- 
ceed to  announce  the  winners,  I  think  it  right 
to  tell  you  that  neither  I  nor  any  one  connected 
with  the  college  has,  as  yet,  the  least  idea  as  to 
who  are  going  to  enjoy  the  privilege  of  the  first 
scholarship.  Each  of  you,  as  you  know,  signed 
your  examination  papers  with  a  fictitious 
name.  Each  of  you  placed  in  an  envelope 
signed  with  your  assumed  name  a  slip  of  paper 
containing  your  real  name.  These  envelopes 
are  still  sealed.  And  now  I  shall  proceed  to 
announce  the  winners  according  to  the  names 
they  adopted  for  the  occasion. 

"The  highest  average,  entitling  the  boy  who 
gained  it  to  a  scholarship  both  for  high  school 
and  college,  was  won  by  'Blue  Hope.'  While 
Father  Dalton  is  verifying  the  winner, 
suppose  the  boy  who  adopted  that  name 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         177 

There  was  a  tremendous  sensation  when  a 
handsome,  dark-eyed  boy  arose. 

"Albert  Corcoran!"  shouted  Bob. 

"Corcoran!  Corcoran!"  yelled  the  eighth- 
grade  pupils  of  St.  Xavier  School.  "Xavier! 
Xavier!" 

"His  average,"  continued  Father  Feeley 
when  the  applause  had  died  out,  "is  ninety- 
nine  and  one-third  per  cent." 

This  announcement  evoked  buzzes  of  ad- 
miration. 

"The  next  in  merit,"  continued  the  vice- 
president,  "has  an  average  of  ninety-nine  and 
a  quarter  per  cent.  Between  the  two,  you  will 
observe,  is  just  the  difference  of  one- twelfth  of 
a  note.  He  uses  the  name  'Campion.' ' 

Then  Bob  arose. 

There  was  applause;  but  it  was  not  hearty. 
Bob's  classmates  had  felt  so  sure  of  his  lead- 
ing the  class  that  they  were  unable  at  once  to 
put  aside  their  disappointment.  His  very 
popularity  was  the  cause  of  the  scant  enthusi- 
asm. Bob  did  not  know  how  much  he  was 
loved ;  but  he  realized  with  a  sensitiveness  new 
to  him  that  there  was  a  marked  difference  be- 
tween the  ovation  accorded  Albert  and  the 
faint  plaudits  which  had  greeted  him. 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Father  Feeley,  "this  is 
a  great  surprise.  The  two  leaders  are  both 


178         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

from  St.  Xavier  School.  As  I  presume  you 
all  know,  only  one  scholarship  is  awarded  to 
any  school.  The  next  winner,  with  a  percent- 
age of  ninety-six,  is  'Comus.' ' 

A  boy  from  the  Assumption  Parish  arose. 

"The  next  in  merit  is  'Tom  Sawyer,'  aver- 
age ninety-five  and  a  half." 

Walter  Godfrey,  the  wag  of  Brother  Cyril's 
class,  arose.  He,  too,  received  an  ovation. 

"The  next  in  merit  is  'Macbeth,'  average 
ninety-five." 

Edward  Bolan  received  a  round  of  applause 
little  less  hearty  than  Godfrey's. 

The  third  scholarship  finally  fell  to  a  pupil 
of  the  Cathedral  Parish  of  Covington,  the 
fourth  to  St.  Edward's,  and  the  fifth  to  St. 
Francis  de  Sales'. 

Bob  left  the  hall  with  a  feeling  of  depres- 
sion for  which  he  could  not  account.  No  one 
rejoiced  more  than  he  at  the  signal  victory  of 
Albert  Corcoran ;  and  yet  there  was  associated 
with  it  a  sinking  of  the  heart.  Surely,  he  rea- 
soned, he  could  not  be  jealous.  His  class- 
mates were  showering  congratulations  upon 
Albert,  and  they  did  it  in  a  whole-souled  way. 
But  they  seemed  to  fight  shy  of  Bob;  they 
addressed  him  awkwardly;  they  were  quick  to 
slip  away  from  his  presence. 

"Bob  Ryan,"  said  Brother  Cyril,  catching 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         179 

his  hand  at  the  door  of  the  hall,  "if  you  had 
only  got  one  little  point  right  in  that  cube- 
root  problem  you'd  have  won  with  a  rating 
of  ninety-nine  and  four-fifths  per  cent." 

"Is  that  so,  Brother?"  asked  the  boy,  try- 
ing, with  faint  success,  to  smile. 

"Yes;  Father  Feeley  has  just  told  me.  It's 
too  bad.  Albert  Corcoran  got  the  arithmetic 
perfectly.  He  lost  two-thirds  of  a  note  in 
English  composition.  What  a  pity  you  missed 
a  simple  thing  like  that!" 

For  the  first  time  in  many  a  month  Bob  was, 
as  the  saying  is,  under  the  weather.  Hard 
study  in  preparation  for  the  contest,  some 
Worry  about  his  finances,  which  were  almost 
exhausted,  and  his  vigil  of  several  nights  in 
succession  at  the  bedside  of  his  little  sick  friend 
had  all  united  to  put  him  into  a  state  of 
nerves.  It  came  to  him,  as  Brother  Cyril 
addressed  him,  that  he  would  not  have  missed 
a  single  fraction  of  a  note  had  he  not  gone  to 
visit  little  Fitzpatrick  the  night  before  the  ex- 
amination. Moreover,  he  was  quite  sure  that 
the  Brother,  no  less  than  his  classmates,  was 
disappointed.  In  fact,  he  read  in  the  Brother's 
words  an  expression  of  chagrin  which  was 
not  there  at  all.  Bob  hurried  home,  locked 
his  door  and  went  to  bed,  where  he  remained 
till  supper. 


180         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

While  Bob,  really  ill,  though  he  knew  it  not, 
passed  the  better  part  of  the  day  in  broken 
slumber,  several  things  happened  which  con- 
cerned him  intimately. 

Word  of  the  wonderful  success  of  St. 
Xavier  School  spread  rapidly.  It  reached, 
first  of  all,  the  office  of  the  Catholic  Telegraph. 
The  editor,  a  St.  Xavier  boy  himself,  rose  to" 
the  occasion.  It  struck  him  that  a  contest  of 
such  a  nature,  in  which  two  boys  of  the  same 
school  came  within  a  tiny  fraction  of  each 
other  and  both  within  a  small  fraction  of  abso- 
lute perfection,  was  worth  special  notice.  He 
resolved  to  secure,  if  possible,  the  photographs 
of  the  two  and  to  reproduce  them  in  the  next 
number  of  his  paper. 

The  news  a  few  minutes  later  reached  the 
people  of  St.  Xavier  Parish.  One  of  the  first 
to  get  it  was  a  pleasant-faced,  grey-haired  man 
on  the  confines  of  the  period  which  separates 
middle  life  from  old  age.  He  was  a  bank- 
teller  by  occupation.  In  his  early  years  Will- 
iam Lawton  had  been  the  handsomest  and 
most  engaging  man  in  St.  Xavier  Parish.  His 
manners  were  unusually  winning.  A  student 
of  St.  Xavier  College,  he  had  shown  in  his 
sophomore  year  a  strong  desire  to  enter  the 
priesthood.  He  was  not  the  brightest  boy  of 
his  class,  but  he  possessed  sufficient  talent  to 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         181 

give  promise  of  qualifying  in  those  studies 
required  of  a  seminarian.  In  addition,  his 
affability,  his  natural  kindliness  and  his  con- 
versational powers  led  those  interested  in  him 
to  believe  that  he  would  make  a  priest  with 
extraordinary  power  for  good.  At  the  last 
moment,  yielding  to  the  tears  and  pleading  of 
his  mother,  he  abandoned  his  intention  of  going 
to  the  seminary,  and,  leaving  college,  went  to 
work  in  a  clerical  position.  His  life,  from  that 
hour,  was  made  up  of  little  things.  Slowly 
but  surely  his  high  ideals  melted  away,  and  he 
became  a  commonplace  man  with  fine  manners 
and  a  misplaced  sense  of  humor.  The  one 
thing  he  picked  out  in  the  doings  and  sayings 
of  his  friends  and  acquaintances  was  the  ridicu- 
lous side.  As  the  years  went  on  he  became  a 
gossip;  and  at  the  time  he  enters  into  this 
story  he  was  never  known  to  say  a  kind  word 
of  any  one,  unless  by  way  of  introduction  to 
some  bit  of  scandal.  William  Lawton  is  a  sad 
case  of  progressive  deterioration;  and  it  is  de- 
pressing to  reflect  that  we  meet  our  William 
Lawton  in  every  community. 

He  lived  in  the  home  of  a  widow, 
Mrs.  Alma  Gentry,  whose  only  son  was  a 
pupil  in  the  eighth  grade  of  St.  Xavier 
School. 

When  Lawton  came  in  for  noon  lunch  Mrs. 


182         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

Gentry  at  once  acquainted  him  with  the  news 
of  Bob's  failure. 

"Too  bad,  isn't  it?"  said  Lawton,  address- 
ing himself  to  his  soup.  "That  boy's  had  it  all 
his  own  way  ever  since  he  came  here.  Think 
of  an  absolute  stranger,  a  lad  of  fourteen, 
camping  in  our  parish  and  taking  possession 
of  it!  The  boys  elect  him  prefect  of  their  So- 
dality, and  they  know  nothing  about  him." 

"He's  the  strongest  boy  in  the  school,"  ob- 
served Malcolm  Gentry. 

"So  he  is,"  answered  Lawton  with  a  genial 
chuckle.  "In  fact,  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  sur- 
prised if  his  father  were  a  prizefighter  or  a 
professional  gymnast.  But  of  course  we  don't 
know  anything  about  his  parents.  The  people 
of  St.  Xavier's  are  very  charitable.  The  boy 
is  pretty  fat.  It  may  come  out  some  day  that 
his  father  was  a  strong  man  who  married  the 
Fat  Lady  in  the  same  circus." 

All  this,  with  perfect  charm  of  manner  and 
with  his  most  winning  smile,  did  Mr.  Lawton 
blandly  declare.  He  attended  Mass  every 
Sunday  and  considered  himself  a  good  Cath- 
olic. Let  us  trust  that  he  sometimes  begged 
to  be  delivered  from  his  hidden  sins. 

"At  any  rate,"  Mrs.  Gentry  announced, 
"I'm  glad  that  one  of  our  own  parish  and  not 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         183 

a  boy  of  unknown  origin  and  a  stranger  is  the 
winner." 

The  widow  made  this  statement  from  the 
fullness  of  her  heart.  She  had  never  forgiven 
Bob  for  having  been  elected  prefect  of  the  So- 
dality. By  some  course  of  intricate  reason 
she  persuaded  herself  that,  had  it  not  been 
for  Bob's  invasion  into  St.  Xavier  Parish, 
her  boy  might  have  been  the  recipient  of  that 
high  office.  Malcolm's  record  hardly  justified 
her  hopes.  It  seemed  to  be  the  rule  of  his  life 
to  let  neither  study  nor  duty  of  any  kind  inter- 
fere with  his  amusements.  Thus,  early  in 
life  he  had  developed  a  strong  taste  for  cheap 
cigarettes  and  cheap  theaters.  His  mother 
held  that  Brother  Cyril  did  not  understand 
her  darling. 

"Yes,  it's  better  so,"  assented  Lawton.  "At 
the  same  time,  Mrs.  Gentry,  we  must  be  fair 
to  Bob  Ryan.  Of  course,  he's  overrated. 
Boys  always  make  too  much  of  pure  animal 
strength,  and  most  people  are  taken  by  that 
vacant  grin  of  his.  He's  got  a  loud  laugh,  too. 
People  like  it;  but  people  don't  know  that 
Oliver  Goldsmith  speaks  of  the  'loud  laugh 
that  speaks  the  vacant  mind.'  When  all  is 
said,  however,  it  must  be  granted  that  the  boy 
has  many  fine  qualities.  Without  friend  or 
guardian,  living  alone,  he  has  certainly  done 


184         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

very  well.  He's  behaved  right  decently.  He 
had  every  chance  to  run  around  and  dissipate. 
And  he  had  lots  of  money.  It's  a  wonder  he's 
not  completely  ruined.  Where  does  that 
money  of  his  come  from?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mrs. 
Gentry. 

"It  comes  easy,"  observed  Malcolm,  "for  it 
goes  easy." 

"I  repeat,  then/'  continued  Lawton  in  his 
softest  and  kindest  tones,  "that  we  must  give 
him  all  credit  for  going  through  the  year  un- 
spoiled, and  even  if  during  the  past  few  weeks 
he  has  changed  for  the  worse " 

"What's  that?"  cried  the  widow,  glowing 
with  excitement. 

"Of  course,"  whispered  Lawton,  "this  talk 
of  ours  is  confidential." 

"You  may  count  on  my  prudence,  Mr.  Law- 
ton;  I  detest  gossip." 

Mr.  Lawton  grinned.  He  had  another 
story  to  tell  at  the  bank. 

"A  few  nights  ago,"  continued  the  teller, 
"I  happened  to  be  coming  down  Sycamore 
Street  at  about  twelve  o'clock,  and  whom 
should  I  run  up  against  but  Bob  Ryan.  He 
was  walking  along  with  his  head  down,  as 
though  he  didn't  want  to  be  recognized." 

"Isn't  that  too  bad!"  ejaculated  the  widow, 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         185 

her  tones  rich  in  sadness,  her  eyes  gleaming 
with  joy  and  interest. 

"I  wouldn't  for  anything  in  the  world 
wrong  the  boy,"  Mr.  Lawton  went  on,  "but  it 
struck  me  that  his  gait  was  the  least  little  bit 
uncertain." 

"Mercy!"  gasped  the  widow.  "So  young 
and  given  to  drink !" 

"Now,  now,  don't  say  that;  it's  a  serious 
charge,  Mrs.  Gentry.  I  hate  to  believe  such 
a  thing.  I  saw  him  the  next  day,  and  his  face 
didn't  look  quite  right.  That  very  night,  I've 
learned — the  night  before  the  contest — he  went 
out  again,  and  he  was  up  late.  This  morning 
I  saw  him,  and  his  face  looked  worse  than  it 
did  yesterday,  and  his  eyes  looked  suspiciously 
like  they  were  bloodshot." 

"Poor  boy!"  exclaimed  the  enraptured 
woman.  "Who  knows  but  he  is  being  led 
astray." 

"Don't  jump  at  conclusions,  Mrs.  Gentry. 
Remember,  too,  that  people  can  go  wrong 
without  being  led  astray.  Some  children  are 
born  into  this  world  with  tainted  blood.  They 
go  wrong,  and  only  God  Himself  may  judge 
how  far  they  are  responsible.  But  a  thousand 
suspicions  do  not  make  a  certainty."  Here 
Mr.  Lawton  arose,  adjusted  his  collar,  and 
with  his  best  smile,  added: 


186         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"You  should  have  seen  that  boy  this  morn- 
ing. I  got  one  look  at  his  face,  and  it  was  the 
face  of  'the  morning  after  the  night  before/ ' 

And  the  kindly-spoken,  kindly-eyed  teller 
departed. 

Then  up  rose  Mrs.  Gentry  with  haste. 

"Malcolm,  dear,  if  you  stay  at  home  and 
do  the  dishes  I'll  be  back  in  an  hour  and  will 
give  you  fifty  cents." 

Fifty  cents!  Malcolm's  face  showed  en- 
thusiasm. 

"Say,  ma,  make  it  sixty." 

"All  right,  Malcolm." 

Putting  on  her  best  hat  and  her  special 
gloves,  Mrs.  Gentry  hurried  out  to  visit  her 
friends. 

Two  hours  after  her  departure  there  were 
twelve  women,  every  one  of  them  a  gossip,  who 
were  armed  with  the  following  information: 

Bob  Ryan  was  the  son  of  a  prizefighter  who 
had  drunk  himself  to  death  and  of  a  Fat  Lady 
who  gave  promise  of  repeating  her  husband's 
performance.  Bob  Ryan  had  come  to  Cincin- 
nati to  reform.  He  had  made  a  brave  fight  for 
nine  months.  But  the  forces  of  heredity  were 
too  strong,  and  so  for  the  past  four  weeks  he 
had  been  going  the  way  of  his  parents.  No 
wonder,  then,  that  he  had  failed  in  winning 
the  scholarship.  Three  weeks  ago  his  teacher 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         187 

had  been  certain  of  the  boy's  victory.  It  was 
really  too  bad.  The  boy  was  more  to  be  pitied 
than  censured;  still,  he  was  hardly  a  fit  com- 
panion for  the  innocent  little  children  of  the 
parish. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  the  gossips.  Some  of 
them  were  having  the  time  of  their  lives.  Not 
all,  however;  the  door  was  shown  to  several 
of  them. 

But — alas  for  human  nature — Bob  was 
suffering  from  his  too  great  popularity. 
There  were  men  and  women  who  knew  him 
only  by  reputation,  and  they  entertained  for 
him  something  of  the  sentiment  which  the 
Athenians  conceived  for  Aristides.  After  all, 
who  was  he?  Who  were  his  parents? 

Those  who  knew  him  were  indignant.  Did 
not  Jerry,  the  janitor  of  St.  Xavier  School, 
pull  Mr.  Lawton's  nose?  Did  not  William 
Devine,  forgetting  his  good  resolutions, 
soundly  thrash  Malcolm  Gentry,  and  send  him 
home  with  a  swollen  nose  and  a  discolored  eye? 
Did  not  Mrs.  Corcoran  request  the  gossip  of 
Ellen  Street  never  more  to  darken  the  Cor- 
coran doors? 

Before  nightfall  Alice  O'Shea,  Elizabeth 
Reno,  and  Mary  Fitzgerald  were  no  longer  on 
speaking  terms  with  fifteen  of  their  girl 
friends.  In  a  word,  a  good  part  of  the  parish, 


188         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

thanks  to  Lawton  and  other  old  women,  was 
set  by  the  ears. 

Bob  slept  during  most  of  these  strenuous 
hours.  He  awoke  refreshed  at  five  o'clock. 
Half  an  hour  later  Mrs.  Corcoran  arrived, 
bringing  with  her  the  entire  family.  She  was 
determined  that  Bob  should  not  go  out  on  the 
street  that  night. 

"We're  going  to  celebrate,  Bob,*'  she  said, 
with  a  smile  so  full  of  sympathy  and  tender- 
ness that  Bob  felt  almost  instinctively  that  she 
felt  sorry  for  him.  "You  and  my  boy  Albert 
have  set  the  record  for  St.  Xavier  School. 
I've  told  your  landlady  that  I'll  set  up  the 
supper  for  to-night.  We've  brought  every- 
thing along,  and  we'll  have  our  supper  right 
in  this  room." 

It  was  a  quiet  celebration.  How  kind,  how 
tender,  they  all  were  to  Bob  1  He  could  sense 
as  never  before  their  love.  But  there  was 
something  more.  They  pitied  him.  The  tears 
came  to  Bob's  eyes,  tears  manfully  suppressed. 
After  all,  it  was  a  wondrous  thing  to  have  the 
love  of  this  wonderful  family.  Bob  had  never 
met  a  family  like  it.  The  Reades  were  won- 
derful, too;  but  they  were  rich.  The  Cor- 
corans,  poor  and  struggling,  had  the  special 
mark  that  made  them  most  like  to  Our  Lord. 
And  yet,  why  should  they  pity  him?  And 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         189 

then,  he  reflected,  the  boys  of  his  class  had 
been  so  cold!  Could  it  be  possible  that  he 
had  disgraced  himself  by  coming  out  second? 
The  question  seemed,  on  the  face  of  it,  absurd. 

The  Corcorans  stayed  till  ten  o'clock.  Be- 
fore leaving,  Albert  engaged  to  meet  Bob  the 
next  morning  at  half -past  eight.  They  were 
to  go  together  to  William  Anthony's  photo- 
graphic studio  on  Fourth  Street  to  have  their 
pictures  taken  for  the  Catholic  Telegraph. 

Mrs.  Corcoran  bade  Bob  a  most  affectionate 
farewell.  Her  smile  was  beautiful  as  she  gazed 
on  him  at  the  threshold ;  but  as  the  door  closed 
on  her  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  weeping  which 
fairly  appalled  her  children. 

Never  before  had  they  seen  her  lose  her 
self-control. 

She  was  herself  presently.  The  children 
walked  on  in  awed  silence. 

Then  Mrs.  Corcoran  said  as  though  to  her- 
self: 

"It  is  a  beautiful  world.  It  is!  There  may 
be  hundreds  of  foul  tongues,  but  a  boy  like 
Bob  Ryan,  brave,  noble,  loyal,  unselfish,  atones 
a  hundred  times  over  for  them  all." 


CHAPTER  XV 

In  which  Bob  has  his  picture  taken,  with,  as 
the  sequel  will  show,  extraordinary  results. 

"T  TEY,  Bob — ready?" 

11  Albert  Corcoran,  standing  at  the 
partly  open  door  of  Bob's  room,  was  grinning 
genially. 

Bob,  frowning  slightly,  was  seated  at  his 
desk  and  sorting  his  letters.  They  were,  alas, 
old  letters.  Anita's  weekly  missive  had  not 
come.  There  was  no  word  from  the  Reades, 
none  from  Tom  Temple.  The  postman  had 
just  passed  down  the  street.  Bob  was  sur- 
prised and  disappointed.  Matt  Morris  should 
have  written,  too;  but  he  could  account  for 
Matt's  failure.  Campion  College  had  just 
dismissed  its  students,  and  Matt,  very  likely, 
was  engrossed  in  preparations  for  camp  life. 
For  ten  months  Bob  had  been  receiving  letters 
on  an  average  of  four  a  week,  and  now  seven 
days  had  passed  without  a  word  from  his  dear 
absent  friends.  In  addition,  on  reckoning  up 
his  expense  account  and  his  cash  on  hand,  the 
disturbing  fact  stood  clear  that  when  all  out- 
standing bills  were  paid  he  would  have  not 
more  than  four  or  five  dollars  with  which  to 

190 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         191 

face  the  world.  There  were  other  matters 
troubling  him,  too,  to  be  presently  revealed  to 
Albert. 

"Say,  Albert,"  he  observed  as  they  came  out 
upon  Pioneer  Street,  "do  the  fellows  think 
I'm  to  blame  because  I  didn't  get  one  hundred 
per  cent?" 

"Nonsense,  Bob;  what  put  that  into  your 
head  ?  They're  sorry,  that's  all.  What  makes 
you  ask  such  a  question?" 

"Well,  somehow  they  act  like  it.  By 
George,  I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  suspicious. 
And  maybe  I'm  spoiled.  You  know,  Albert, 
everybody's  been  so  kind  to  me  that  I  just  take 
their  smiles  and  goodness  as  a  matter  of  course, 
instead  of  wondering  at  it.  Now  this  morn- 
ing after  five  o'clock  Mass  several  of  the 
acolytes  who  were  to  serve  at  six  o'clock  came 
in.  Now,  the  funny  thing  is  they  were  kind 
and  nice,  all  right,  but,  without  intending  it, 
they  hurt  my  feelings.  Two  or  three  stood 
apart  and  looked  at  me  in  a  strange  way,  and 
talked  in  whispers.  It's  a  terrible  thing  to  be- 
come suspicious,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  they  were  talking  about 
me." 

"Don't  get  suspicious,  Bob,"  said  Albert, 
knowing  only  too  well  that  Bob's  inferences 
were  fully  justified.  "It  isn't  at  all  like  you. 


192         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

As  for  friends,  you've  got  more  just  now  than 
you  could  shake  a  stick  at." 

"I  should  never  forget  that,"  said  Bob  sim- 
ply. "Often  it  makes  me  feel  utterly  mean 
and  contemptible  when  I  think  of  all  the  boys 
and  girls  and  people  who  show  such  trust  in 
me.  Why,  only  this  morning  Brother  Crellin 
went  out  of  his  way  to  congratulate  me.  He 
told  me  that  I  had  done  wonderfully  well,  and 
he  was  proud  of  me.  And  there  was  so  much 
kindness  in  his  voice.  There  was  something 
else,  Albert." 

"What  else?" 

"There  was  pity.  And  yesterday  evening, 
when  you  and  your  mother  and  the  others  of 
your  family  were  over,  I  noticed  that,  too. 
You  were  all  sorry  for  me." 

Albert  was  about  to  make  an  evasive  an- 
swer, when  a  clear,  sweet,  piercing  high  voice 
crying,  "Bob,  Bob!"  saved  the  situation. 

Turning,  the  two  discovered,  running  after 
them  at  full  speed,  Alice  and  Elizabeth. 

"Hey,  Bob!  Are  you  going  to  have  your 
picture  took?"  panted  Alice. 

"Now,  who  told  you  that?"  cried  Bob,  break- 
ing once  more  into  the  smile  concerning  which 
Lawton  had  quoted  Oliver  Goldsmith's  much- 
abused  line.  Alice  always  awoke  the  boy's 
best  smile.  It  was  good  to  see  her,  fair,  curly- 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         193 

headed,  radiant,  the  kindness  of  a  kind  soul 
shining  out  of  kind  blue  eyes. 

"Who  told  me?— Johnny  O'Brien,  of 
course." 

"Johnny  O'Brien,"  remarked  Elizabeth, 
looking  upon  Bob  with  her  most  favoring  eyes, 
"knows  everything." 

"How  could  he  have  known  it?"  asked  Bob. 

"The  answer's  easy,"  responded  Albert, 
laughing  heartily.  "Johnny  saw  me  in  my 
Sunday  best  coming  to  get  you  a  while  ago, 
and  it  takes  Johnny  to  put  two  and  two  to- 
gether." 

All  this  time  the  fair  Alice  was  holding 
daintily  in  her  fingers  a  beautiful  red  rose. 
At  this  point  of  the  conversation  Elizabeth 
nudged  Alice,  who,  looking  darkly,  began 
making  signals  in  return. 

"Wait,  Bob,"  she  commanded,  and  she  drew 
Elizabeth  aside.  They  communed  together 
earnestly,  and  in  low  tones.  Finally,  advanc- 
ing to  Bob's  side,  Alice,  with  a  pretty  blush, 
said:  "Bob,  take  this  rose  and  wear  it  in  your 
buttonhole  while  you're  getting  your  picture 
took." 

"It's  from  both  of  us,"  announced  Eliz- 
abeth, blushing  in  turn. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you!"  exclaimed  the 
radiant  Bob. 


194         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

Then  the  two  young  ladies  fell  to  nudging 
each  other  and  to  making  extraordinary  signs. 

"You  tell  him,"  said  Alice. 

"You  tell  him,"  returned  Elizabeth. 

"Let's  both  do  it,"  suggested  the  blonde. 

"That's  it.  We'll  both  do  it.  Now  to- 
gether." 

Alice  held  up  her  hand.  The  two,  still  blush- 
ing, faced  Bob. 

"Follow  me,"  whispered  Alice,  taking  the 
lead,  and  obeyed  so  promptly  by  the  quick 
Elizabeth  that  they  seemed  to  utter  each  syl- 
lable synchronously — — 

"Bob — Ryan — when — you — get — your  pic- 
ture —  took  —  will  —  you — give — me — one?" 
upon  delivering  which  they  suddenly  turned 
and  ran  screaming  away. 

"By  Jove,"  said  Bob,  as  they  turned  into 
Broadway,  at  the  end  of  Pioneer  Street, 
"those  two  girls  are  wonders.  They're  as  good 
as  real  boys,  only  they're  funnier.  You're 
right,  Albert,  I  guess  I'm  suspicious.  And," 
he  added,  "I'm  spoiled,  too.  Albert,  those  two 
girls  talked  to  me,  and  gave  me  this  beautiful 
rose — and  they  didn't  notice  you  the  whole 
time.  And  it  didn't  seem  strange  to  me  at  all. 
I  guess  I'm  getting  selfish." 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  Albert  stoutly. 
"They  hardly  know  me,  anyhow;  and  besides 


HIS  LUCKIEST  TEAR         195 

I've  got  a  flower  in  my  buttonhole;  and  if  I'd 
been  as  kind  and  thoughtful  as  those  two  little 
girls  I'd  have- 
Albert's  flow  of  language  was  brought  to  a 
sudden  halt  by  Eva  Conlon,  a  little  girl  of 
the  primary  grade.  She  was  a  simple,  inno- 
cent, loving  little  child,  as  are  nearly  all  the 
little  ones  of  that  grade  in  St.  Xavier's.  To 
inhale  the  mystic  fragrance  of  paradise  one  has 
only  to  watch  these  little  ones  going  about  the 
ordered  duties  of  the  classroom.  The  miracle 
of  it  all  is  to  account  for  the  loveliness  which 
is  the  atmosphere  in  which  these  little  ones 
live  and  move  and  have  their  being.  Not  all 
of  them  come  by  it  honestly.  Eva's  mother 
was  decidedly  unlike  her  child. 

The  mother  was  on  a  shopping  tour,  and 
Eva,  with  unequal  stride,  was  trotting  on  be- 
side her.  Happening  to  glance  around,  Eva 
perceived  Bob.  Uttering  a  scream  of  sheer 
delight,  she  turned  and  ran  at  full  speed 
toward  him.  It  looked  as  though  she  would 
run  Bob  down.  But  little  children  have  the 
peculiar  gift  of  making  a  flying  start  and 
coming  to  a  stand  with  equal  suddenness. 

"Oh,  Bob!"  cried  Eva,  with  shining  eyes, 
as  she  caught  his  hand.    And  that  was  all  Eva 
had  to  say — the  rest  was  expression. 
"How  do  you  do,  Eva?"  said  the  boy. 


196         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Here,  Eva,"  cried  the  mother,  darting  a 
malignant  glance  at  Bob,  as  she  shouldered 
the  child  away,  "don't  talk  to  everybody  you 
meet  on  the  street.  It's  common." 

Then  as  she  walked  off  with  the  wide-eyed 
child  she  added  in  a  tone  that  came  distinctly 
to  Bob's  ears— 

"Before  I  let  my  child  associate  with  stran- 
gers I'd  like  to  know  first  something  about 
their  fathers  and  mothers — if  they've  got  any." 

Had  the  woman  struck  Bob  in  the  face  he 
could  have  borne  it  better.  His  head  went 
down,  his  face  grew  red  and  then  deadly  pale. 
Tears  sprang  to  his  eyes.  As  for  Albert,  the 
volatile,  easy,  good-natured  Albert,  he  too  was 
much  moved.  His  eyes  blazed,  his  mouth 
quivered.  Placing  his  hands  on  his  knees,  he 
stared  at  the  woman's  back,  with  a  stare  which, 
had  it  been  a  dagger,  would  have  pierced  her 
through,  making  at  the  same  time  a  face  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  a  Gorgon.  Albert 
went  through  with  all  this  in  much  less  time 
than  it  takes  to  tell.  Then  he  turned  his  sym- 
pathetic attention  to  his  companion. 

"Bob,  Bob!"  he  cried,  putting  his  arm 
through  his  companion's;  "don't  you  pay  any 
attention  to  that — that — cat!" 

"Albert,"  returned  Bob  simply,  "that  was 
awful.  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  No 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         197 

one  ever  said  anything  like  that  to  me  in  all 
my  born  days." 

"Forget  it,  Bob." 

"Oh!"  cried  Bob,  "I  see  it  all  now.  They've 
been  talking  about  me.  That's  why  you  all 
looked  so  sorry." 

"Yes,  Bob,"  admitted  Albert,  "an  old 
woman  of  this  parish  who  wears  trousers 
started  the  talk.  But  don't  you  mind.  You've 
lots  of  friends." 

"How  can  I  help  minding,"  cried  Bob,  chok- 
ing back  a  sob.  "If  they'd  abuse  me  I  think 
I  could  stand  for  it.  But  they've — they've 
been  talking  about  my  mother." 

Albert  could  say  nothing.  But  he  caught 
Bob's  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"I  don't  even  remember  her,"  said  Bob; 
"but  she's  been  always  the  same  to  me  as  my 
guardian  angel.  In  fact,  I  think  of  them 
always  at  the  same  time.  All  this  year,  Al- 
bert, I've  been  helped  to  do  right  and  fight 
temptation  because  I  believe  that  my  mother, 
who  died  when  I  was  a  baby,  is  a  saint  in 
heaven  watching  over  me." 

"That's  what  my  mother  believes,  too,"  said 
Albert. 

"Last  night  or  early  this  morning,"  con- 
tinued Bob,  drawn  out  of  his  ordinary  reti- 
cence by  the  hideous  insult  of  the  woman,  "I 


198         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

had  the  loveliest  dream.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
as  I  was  half-asleep,  half-awake,  a  veiled  figure 
walked  into  my  room.  She  came  close  to  my 
bed,  and  I  saw  her  face — the  loveliest  face! 
I  felt  that  it  was  the  loveliest  face,  though  I 
couldn't  describe  it.  And  that  face  bent  down 
to  mine,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  my  mother.  I 
knew  it  just  as  I  know  you're  Albert.  And 
her  lips  touched  mine.  Then  I  woke  and  I 
was  crying  'mother!'  with  my  arms  stretched 
out  to  embrace  her.  There  was  no  sign  of  her 
in  my  room.  But,  Albert,  I  felt  as  though  she 
had  certainly  been  there." 

"That's  just  beautiful,"  continued  Albert. 
"You  ought  to  tell  Father  Carney.  Maybe 
your  mother  did  come  to  you  in  a  dream  to 
make  you  brave  in  spite  of  all  this  horrid  talk." 

As  Albert  was  finishing  his  sentence  they 
were  tramping  up  the  stairs  which  led  to  Mr. 
Anthony's  studio. 

The  young  woman  in  the  office,  on  getting 
their  names,  showed  great  interest. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I've  heard  of  you.  You're 
the  two  record-smashers.  My !  I  wish  I  was  as 
smart  as  you.  If  I  were  I'd  be  writing  books 
like  Bertha  Clay — or  something.  Say,  you're 
to  go  right  up,  because  Mr.  Anthony  says  your 
work  is  to  be  rushed.  This  way,  boys — right 
up  them  stairs.  He's  got  everything  ready." 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         199 

Up  the  stairs  they  skipped,  Albert  in  the 
lead.  He  realized  he  was  in  the  presence  of 
Mr.  Anthony  by  bumping  full  tilt  into  that 
distinguished  young  photographer. 

Mr.  Anthony  was  an  artist  by  nature.  He 
showed  it  in  his  dress,  in  his  hair,  in  his  actions, 
and,  his  intimate  friends  avowed,  in  his  moods. 
Mr.  Anthony  was  temperamental. 

"I  think  you've  arrived,"  he  said,  balancing 
himself  with  no  little  difficulty.  "Oh, 
heavens!"  he  exclaimed,  stepping  back  and 
gazing  with  sheer  delight  upon  Albert's  face. 
"Your  features,  young  man,  as  I  see  them, 
stand  for  the  highest  type  of  Italian  beauty." 

"Oh,  crickey!"  cried  Albert,  breaking  into  a 
smile. 

"Hey,  Rosalind,"  called  the  artist,  "come 
up  at  once."  Her  name,  by  the  way,  was 
Mary  Jane.  Rosalind  was  a  free  translation 
made  by  Mr.  Anthony  himself. 

"Look,  Rosalind,  look  at  that  face.  Can 
you  beat  it?  It's  Little  Italy." 

"Sakes  alive!"  said  Mary  Jane. 

"That  face,  Rosalind,"  continued  Mr.  An- 
thony, staring  straight  at  the  blushing  boy,  is 

'  "Full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth.' ' 


200         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

Mary  Jane  gasped,  then  recovering  her- 
self, she  put  her  arms  akimbo,  and  answered: 

"That's  just  what  I  thought,  sir,  when  I 
first  seen  him." 

"And  this  youth,"  continued  the  photogra- 
pher, turning  eyes  almost  as  enthusiastic  upon 
Bob,  "is  another  type — the  cherubic." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Bob. 

"But  you  don't  look  just  right,  boy.  Your 
eyes  are  a  trifle  swollen.  You  look  as  if  you've 
been  crying.  Rosalind,  bring  this  cherub  boy 
to  the  lavatory,  and  see  that  he  douches  his 
eyes  till  they  look  normal." 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Mary  Jane. 

"Now,  sir,"  continued  Mr.  Anthony,  ad- 
dressing Albert,  "sit  you  down  in  that  chair. 
That's  it.  Head  erect,  chin  down.  What  are 
you  frowning  about?" 

"I  ain't,"  protested  Albert. 

"You  are.  And  even  if  you  weren't,"  added 
Mr.  Anthony,  getting  behind  his  machine, 
"even  if  you  weren't,  don't  do  it  again." 

The  smile  that  overspread  Albert's  coun- 
tenance was  brought  to  an  end  by  a  loud 
click. 

"What  was  that,  sir?" 

"That  was  you,  my  boy.  I've  got  you.  It 
was  so  easy,  so  wonderful.  All  great  art  is 
easy.  If  I  were  to  keep  you  here  for  a  week. 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          201 

I'd  not  succeed  in  getting  a  better  pose.  If 
you've  no  objection,  boy,  I'll  put  a  special  pic- 
ture of  you  in  my  art  exhibit." 

"None  at  all,  sir." 

"Thank  you,  and  I'll  send  you  a  dozen 
photos  with  my  compliments.  I  call  them 
photos;  they  will  be  portraits.  Rosalind! 
Rosalind!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Mary  Jane.  "He's 
all  ready  now,  sir."  And  forth  came  Mary 
Jane  with  Bob.  The  eyes  were  no  longer 
swollen;  but  the  light  of  joy  was  gone  from 
Bob's  face — eclipsed  by  the  cruel  words  of  a 
foolish  tongue. 

For  fifteen  minutes  Bob  endeavored  to  pose. 
Several  times  the  click  was  heard;  but  follow- 
ing upon  the  click  came  some  expression  of 
disgust  from  the  photographer. 

"You've  got  a  great  face,"  he  observed, 
"and  I  ought  to  get  a  great  picture  out  of  it. 
When  I  tell  you  to  look  pleasant  you  try,  but 
you  don't  succeed. 

"Suppose,"  he  said,  after  taking  several 
turns  up  and  down  the  room,  during  which  he 
ran  his  hands  furiously  through  his  hair,  "sup- 
pose, boy,  you  try  to  look  serious.  Think  of 
something  sad." 

It  was  so  easy  for  poor  Bob  just  then  to 
think  of  something  sad.  He  obeyed  at  once. 


202          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Stop!  Stop!"  implored  the  artist.  "You 
look  like  Romeo  at  the  tomb  of  Juliet.  Hey, 
Rosalind,  Rosalind!  Come  up  at  once." 

Mary  Jane,  chewing  gum  and  making  no 
secret  of  it,  presently  appeared. 

"Rosalind!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Anthony. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Mary  Jane. 

"I'm  in  a  peck  of  trouble,  Rosalind." 

"You  look  it,  sir,"  admitted  Mary  Jane. 

"This  stout  youth  has  got  me  in  a  predica- 
ment. I  have  taken  his  picture  seven  times. 
But  each  is  an  ordinary  thing.  To  reproduce 
any  of  them  would  injure  my  standing  as  an 
artist,  Rosalind." 

"What's  the  diff  ?"  queried  Mary  Jane. 

Mr.  Anthony  fixed  an  indignant  eye  upon 
her. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself, 
Rosalind." 

"I  ain't,"  retorted  Mary  Jane. 

"Away  with  idle  persiflage!"  said  Mr.  An- 
thony. 

Mary  Jane  loved  big  words,  and  reverenced 
them.  She  straightened  up,  and,  for  the  mo- 
ment, ceased  chewing. 

"Rosalind,"  continued  the  artist,  pulling  a 
single  hair  from  his  head,  holding  it  up  to  the 
light  and  staring  at  it  intently,  "I've  made  this 
boy — this  cherubic  boy — look  pleasant,  and  it 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          203 

doesn't  work  right.  I  know  he  ought  to  look 
pleasant,  but  I  fear  he's  temperamental,  and 
this  isn't  his  day,  Rosalind." 

"No,"  assented  Mary  Jane,  "it  isn't  his  day." 

"And  I've  asked  him  to  look  gloomy,  and 
he  does  the  part  to  perfection.  The  effect  is 
too  tragic." 

"I  guess,"  suggested  Mary  Jane,  "that  he 
looks  like  one  of  those  moving-picture  men, 
like  Owen  Moore  when  things  don't  come  his 
way." 

"An  excellent  criticism,  Rosalind."  Now, 
what  would  you  suggest?" 

The  young  lady  put  her  arms  akimbo,  and, 
chewing  more  vigorously  than  ever,  frankly 
examined  Bob's  features. 

"He  has  a  good  heart,  he  has." 

"Yes,  Rosalind." 

"And  I'd  say  if  he  were  to  think  of  his 
friends,  of  the  people  he  loves,  you'd  get  his 
best  face." 

"Rosalind,  you're  a  genius!" 

"Oh,  ain't  I  the  little  genius,  though?"  re- 
torted Mary  Jane. 

"I  think  you've  got  the  right  idea.  Some 
day,  if  I  can  get  my  courage  up  to  the  stick- 
ing point,  I'm  going  to  propose  to  you  and 
marry  you  before  I  change  my  mind,  Rosa- 
lind." 


204          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

Mary  Jane,  ceasing  to  chew,  put  on  the  face 
of  a  tragedy  queen.  Giving  Mr.  Anthony  a 
look  of  magnificent  disdain,  she  turned  on  her 
heels  and  departed,  with  movement  stately 
and  slow,  down  the  stairway.  Albert  was  by 
way  of  being  impressed  with  the  young  lady's 
demeanor,  but  the  arms,  akimbo,  supple- 
mented by  a  wink  which  she  threw  at  him  as 
she  turned,  left  him  free  to  conjecture  that  her 
feelings  were  little  if  at  all  lacerated. 

"That  young  woman,"  soliloquized  the  artist 
photographer,  still  pacing  the  room,  "under 
the  homeliest  forms  of  speech,  and  under  a 
shirt-waist  which  you  can  buy  at  ninety -eight 
cents  in  any  department  store,  conceals  a  heart 
rich  with  a  sense  of  beauty.  It  is  true  she 
loves  to  stand  with  arms  akimbo,  it  is  true  she 
considers  the  chewing  of  gum  as  a  sort  of  pub- 
lic function,  it  is  true- 
Suddenly  his  words  stopped,  and  he  gasped. 
With  a  spring  and  a  bound,  he  had  reached  the 
camera. 

"Don't  move,"  he  cried.  Then  there  was  a 
click.  »i 

"I've  got  you!"  he  cried.  "Oh,  but  I've  got 
you.  Say,  my  boy,  what  were  you  thinking 
of  just  then?  You  looked  something  like  a 
picture  of  St.  Augustine.  You  were  gazing 
dreamily  into  space,  your  chin  resting  in  your 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          205 

right  palm,  and  its  elbow  supported  by  the 
other.  Say,  what  were  you  thinking  of?" 

Bob  blushed. 

"Of  a  dream  I  had  last  night." 

"It  must  have  been  a  very,  very  beautiful 
dream,"  said  Mr.  Anthony. 

While  the  two  boys  were  making  their  adieu 
there  was  an  interesting  scene  in  a  bank  within 
one  square  of  the  studio. 

Colonel  Robert  Bridwell  was  discussing  the 
news  of  the  day  with  a  real-estate  agent,  a 
wholesale  grocer,  and  a  lawyer.  They  were 
still  talking  when  the  bank  president  en- 
tered. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Lawton,"  cried  the 
colonel,  "just  fix  up  my  book,  will  you,  and 
cash  my  balance." 

"What!"  cried  Lawton,  "you're  not  draw- 
ing out?" 

"That's  what  I  am,"  said  the  colonel.  "And 
the  reason  is  I  don't  want  my  money  to  pass 
through  your  hands.  You  don't  look  good  to 
me  any  more." 

"Wh-what's  the  matter?'   asked  Lawton. 

"You  are!  See  here,  Lawton,  do  you  know 
what  I've  been  working  for  the  last  six 
weeks?" 

"The  orphans'  picnic." 

"Precisely.     I  think  we  ought  to  work  for 


206         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

the  orphans.  Poor  little  kiddies,  they  have 
no  friends.  We  all  feel  sorry  for  them.  We 
all  work  for  them.  All  except  you." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Lawton. 

"What  about  the  orphan,  Bob  Ryan?"  asked 
the  colonel. 

"Bob  Ryan!"  repeated  Lawton.  "I  didn't 
know  that  he  was  an  orphan." 

"Oh,  you  didn't?  Bob  Ryan  has  been  help- 
ing me  for  three  weeks.  He's  the  cleanest, 
most  energetic  boy  I've  ever  met.  He's  going 
to  help  me  all  day  at  the  picnic  on  July  fourth. 
He's  going  to  be  my  aide-de-camp.  And  you, 
sir,  with  your  confounded  tongue  that  ought 
to  be  thoroughly  dry-cleaned  after  it's  been 
laundered  first,  have  had  the  meanness  to 
talk  about  that  boy  so  that,  as  far  as  you're 
concerned,  he  hasn't  a  rag  of  reputation 
left." 

"I  didn't  say  he  was  an  orphan,  Colonel." 

"I  wish  you  had,"  returned  the  colonel,  "and 
had  let  it  go  at  that.  But  you  did  worse.  You 
insinuated  that  there  was  something  wrong 
about  his  parentage.  Don't  deny  it — we've 
had  the  story  traced  up.  And  if  it  were  true, 
sir,  that  there  was  something  wrong  about  his 
parentage,  he'd  be  worse  off  than  an  orphan, 
poor  fellow.  Go  on  now  and  fix  up  my  bal- 
ance. I'll  be  back  in  an  hour  or  so,  and  when 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         207 

I  come  I'll  leave  you  a  list  of  streets  you'd 
better  avoid  if  you  want  to  save  your  precious 
skin." 

And  white  with  anger,  the  colonel  left  the 
bank. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Bob's  picture  produces  effects  which,  as  the 
tequel  will  show,  more  than  atone  for  his  fail- 
ure. He  falls  asleep  to  be  awakened  by  a  de- 
lightful surprise. 

ON  the  morning  of  July  the  fifth  the  mail 
carrier  who  served  the  good  people  of 
Pioneer  Street  found  his  work  unusually  sim- 
ple. Little  boys  and  girls  met  him  at  the 
threshold  of  their  respective  homes,  and,  seiz- 
ing the  mail  from  his  hands,  rushed  feverishly 
indoors.  They  were  all  looking  for  Bob's  pic- 
ture. 

Alice  O'Shea  was  the  first  to  get  possession 
of  the  coveted  issue  of  the  Catholic  Telegraph. 
She  had  stationed  herself  at  the  head  of  the 
street  and  there  held  up  the  astonished  mail 
carrier.  She  opened  the  paper  at  once  and  was 
quick  to  discover  on  the  inside  sheet  opposite 
the  editorial  page  the  pictures  of  a  laughing 
boy  full  of  sunny  Italy  and  of  a  thoughtful, 
dreamy-eyed  lad,  his  chin  resting  in  his  open 
palm,  who  was  looking  inquiringly  into  space. 
The  pictures  were  side  by  side,  and  under 
them  were  printed  the  names  and  addresses  of 

208 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          209 

the  two  boys,  with  a  statement  concerning 
their  wonderfully  high  percentage  in  the  great 
contest.  Alice  gazed  intently,  gave  a  shriek 
of  delight,  and  dashed  down  the  street  at  full 
speed  to  show  the  wonderful  thing  to  her  best 
friend. 

On  the  way  she  stopped  to  greet  Brother 
Cyril,  who  happened  to  be  coming  up  the 
street. 

"Oh,  look,  Brother  Cyril,"  she  cried.  "Isn't 
it  cute?" 

Brother  Cyril,  on  seeing  the  pictures,  gave 
a  start. 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "they  are  wonderful 
photographs.  One  might  call  them  L' Allegro 
and  II  Penseroso.  But  I  never  saw  that  ex- 
pression on  Bob  Ryan's  face  before.  It  looks 
strangely  like  him,  and  yet  there's  an  expres- 
sion on  his  face  such  as  I  never  expected  to 
see." 

"I  think  he  looks  lovely,"  said  Alice. 

"It's  the  face,"  continued  Brother  Cyril,  "of 
one  in  great  sorrow.  Bob  Ryan  never  knew  a 
sorrow  in  his  life." 

"They've  been  salamandering  him,"  ex- 
plained Alice. 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  brother. 

"They've  been  salamandering  him,"  she  re- 
plied in  her  most  distinct  tones.  "That's  what 


210          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

my  father  said.  He  said  some  people  love  to 
lie  about  other  people,  and  they've  been  telling 
lies  about  Bob." 

"Oh,"  said  the  brother,  "the  scandalmongers 
have  been  calumniating  him." 

"Yes,"  assented  Alice;  "that's  what  I  said. 
They're  a  lot  of  salamanders.  And,"  she  con- 
tinued, doubling  one  fist,  rolling  her  eyes  and 
frowning  fiercely,  "I  wish  I  was  a  man.  So 
does  Elizabeth.  So  does  Mary  Fitzgerald." 

"Why?"  asked  Brother  Cyril. 

"We'd  punch  'em  good  and  hard."  Say- 
ing which,  Alice  once  more  broke  into  a  run, 
leaving  the  Brother  to  conjecture  what  had 
given  rise  to  the  talk  about  Bob  and  why  it  had 
brought  upon  the  boy's  face  that  strange,  ap- 
pealing expression. 

Brother  Cyril  was  not  the  only  one  to  be 
stirred  by  the  unusual  photograph.  It  inter- 
ested all  who  saw  it.  It  caused  wonder  and 
discussion. 

Angelo  Corcoran,  chancing  to  enter  his  em- 
ployer's office,  saw  the  Telegraph  lying  open 
on  the  desk.  The  part  containing  the  picture 
lay  exposed.  He  took  it  up,  gave  one  look 
and  caught  his  breath.  He  looked  again. 

"My  God!"  he  exclaimed,  and  left  the  room 
as  though  he  had  seen  a  vision. 

In  a  smaller  town  a  lady  in  mourning  saw 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         211 

the  picture.  At  the  first  glance  she  uttered  a 
cry  and  fell  fainting  to  the  floor. 

Bob  Ryan,  seated  at  his  desk,  saw  the  pic- 
ture, too.  He  glanced  at  it  and  threw  it  aside 
with  a  heavy  heart.  It  brought  back  keenly 
to  his  memory  the  insult  which  had  so  much  to 
do  with  the  sad  expression  which  distinguished 
his  face  in  the  photograph. 

Bob  had  seen  Father  Carney  that  very 
morning  and  had  told  him  his  troubles. 

'  'Be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow, 
thou  shalt  not  escape  calumny.'  Bob,  you've 
had  a  splendid  year,  my  boy;  and  you  have 
been  a  credit  to  the  school.  Your  influence 
has  been  strong  and  it  has  all  been  for  good. 
The  Sodality  has  done  wonderful  work  with 
you  as  prefect.  But  besides  all  this,  you've 
been  too  popular.  You  remember,  Bob,  at  the 
time  of  Confirmation,  when  I  advised  you  to 
wait  another  year." 

"Yes,  Father." 

"Somehow  I  haven't  the  least  doubt  but  that 
you  were  truly  and  properly  baptized.  But 
we  could  get  no  record;  and  we  were  obliged 
either  to  baptize  you  conditionally  or  wait. 
My  reason,  Bob,  for  asking  you  to  wait  was 
because  I  felt  quite  sure  that  the  mystery  sur- 
rounding your  first  years  would  be  cleared  up 
very  shortly." 


212         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Yes,  Father." 

"Perhaps  I  made  a  mistake.  No  doubt  some 
busybodies  began  to  inquire  why  you  did  not 
receive  Confirmation.  It  would  be  just  like 
Lawt — er — just  like  some  people  I  know  to 
take  up  a  thing  like  that  and  make 
the  most  of  it.  All  the  same,  I  still  be- 
lieve that  after  this  storm  sunshine  will 
come  again." 

"Thank  you,  Father.  Do  you  know  that 
my  year  is  up  to-day?" 

"What  year,  Bob?" 

"I  guess  you  might  call  it  my  year  of  exile. 
You  know,  my  father  made  me  swear  to 
change  my  name  from  Evans  to  Ryan,  and  to 
stay  away  from  Dubuque,  my  home  town,  for 
one  year.  That  happened  on  last  July  the 
fifth." 

"And  you  feel  like  going  back?" 

"I  certainly  do,  Father." 

Father  Carney  indulged  in  a  moment's  re- 
flection. 

"Bob,"  he  said,  "I  believe  it's  the  best  thing 
you  could  do.  I  understand  how  you  feel. 
Just  at  present  this  town  is  not  the  place  for 
you.  Dangerous  tongues  have  done  for  you 
what  they  have  done  for  the  very  best  men. 
But  mark  this,  Bob:  You'll  come  back  some 
day  in  triumph,  and  your  slanderers  will  be 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         213 

punished  in  God's  own  way.    By  the  by,  have 
you  money  enough  to  travel?" 

"I  was  at  the  Orphans'  Picnic  yesterday," 
answered  Bob,  breaking  into  a  smile,  "helping 
Colonel  Bridwell.  He's  a  daisy,  ain't  he? 
He  went  out  of  his  way  to  make  much  of  me. 
I'm  sure  he  must  have  heard  the  story.  Isn't 
he  a  daisy,  though?  Well,  I've  spent  nearly 
every  cent  I've  got  in  the  world;  I  haven't 
much  more  than  will  pay  my  rent  for  this 
week,  and  a  few  odd  bills.  But  I'm  sure  I 
can  get  some  money,  Father." 

"And  so  am  I,"  said  Father  Carney,  with 
unusual  cordiality.  Praise  of  Colonel  Brid- 
well, though  Bob  knew  it  not,  was  music  to  his 
ears. 

"The  colonel  called  me  up  this  morning,  and 
told  me  what  noble  work  you  had  done  at  his 
picnic  department  store.  He  says  he  noticed 
that  you  were  short  of  money  toward  evening, 
and  that  if  you  need  anything  I'm  to  ad- 
vance you  the  cash,  and  he'll  fix  it  up  with 
me  later." 

"Isn't  that  kind  of  him!"  exclaimed  Bob 
"Thank  you,  Father  Carney.  I'll  think  about 
it,  and  I'll  let  you  know.  I  don't  like  travel- 
ing on  other  people's  money,  but  I'm  tempted 
to  get  away.  So  many  people  stare  at  me  and 
make  remarks." 


214          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Bob,  are  those  people  the  ones  you  know?" 

"No,  Father,  they  were  never  friends  of 
mine.  I  just  know  them  by  sight — that  is, 
most  of  them." 

"And  what  about  your  friends?" 

"Oh,  they're  nicer  than  ever." 

"Then,  why  worry?  In  spite  of  lies  and  in- 
sinuations you  haven't  lost  a  friend.  Isn't  that 
fine,  Bob?" 

"Why,  yes,  Father;  I  guess  it  is.  I  never 
looked  on  it  in  that  way  before.  I  ought  to  be 
grateful.  But  there's  another  thing:  I'm  so 
lonesome." 

"Lonesome?" 

"Yes,  Father.  I  haven't  heard  a  word  for 
ten  days  or  more — nearly  two  weeks — from 
Anita  or  Tom  Temple  or  any  of  my  old 
friends.  And  besides,  as  you  probably  know, 
Mrs.  Corcoran  and  my  best  friend,  Albert, 
went  to  Iowa  the  night  before  last  to  visit  Mrs. 
Symmes.  And  I'm  just  as  lonesome  as  I  can 
be." 

Bob  returned  to  his  room.  The  mail  carrier, 
as  already  set  down,  left  him  a  copy  of  the 
Telegraph,  but  no  letter.  Bob  fell  into  a 
meditation,  and  from  meditation  into  a  sleep. 
The  strenuous  work  at  the  picnic,  lasting  until 
nearly  midnight,  had  exhausted  him. 

At  the  noon  hour  the  landlady  peeped  in, 


HIS  LUCKIEST  TEAR         215 

and  retired  discreetly  on  tiptoe,  leaving  the  boy 
undisturbed. 

The  afternoon  was  fast  advancing  toward 
sunset,  when  a  loud  knock  aroused  the  boy 
from  his  slumbers. 

"Come  in,"  he  cried,  jumping  to  his  feet 
and  rubbing  his  eyes.  Then  there  came  from 
his  throat  a  cry  of  joy. 

"What!"  he  yelled.  "Tom  Temple  and 
Lucille  Reade?" 

"Not  on  your  life,"  answered  Tom  genially. 
"Permit  me,  Bob :  Mr.  Thomas  Temple — and 
wife!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Showing  how  brides  and  grooms  should  act 
when  children  greet  them.  A  last  look  at  the 
Flower  of  Pioneer  Street.  Bob's  farewell. 
Alice  and  Elizabeth  meet  the  Lady  in  Black. 

BOB  started  to  put  his  hand  under  his  noble 
chin;  but  before  he  could  complete  his 
favorite  gesture,  Lucille,  smiling  and  blushing, 
threw  her  arms  about  him  and  planted  a  kiss 
upon  the  spot  which  his  gesture  would  have 
covered.  Whereupon  Tom  Temple  in  turn 
caught  him  in  a  stout  embrace  and  whirled 
him  about  the  room. 

"What!  What!  Why— how— "  blurted 
Bob. 

"That's  it  exactly,"  answered  Tom  to  these 
wild  and  incoherent  exclamations.  "You've 
said  it  all  in  words  of  one  syllable."  Here 
Tom  whirled  Bob  into  a  chair  and  held  him 
down.  "Yes,  Bob;  it's  exactly  as  you  say: 

'The  voice  that  breathed  o'er  Eden, 

That  earliest  wedding  day, 
The  primal  marriage  blessing, 

It  hath  not  passed  away.' ' 

216 


HIS  LUCKIEST  TEAR         217 

'Bob,  delighted,  startled,  dazed,  gazed  at 
Lucille.  Lucille,  pink  as  a  peony,  gazed  at 
Tom  Temple.  Tom,  gurgling,  rippling  with 
laughter,  returned  the  gaze,  and  suddenly 
threw  his  arms  about  Lucille,  who,  to  do  her 
justice,  showed  a  like  activity. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Bob,  bubbling  over  with 
joy,  "I  see!" 

"See  what?"  cried  Tom,  disengaging  him- 
self. "It's  about  time.  Bob,  we've  gone  and 
got  married."  After  which  declaration  the 
happy  couple,  like  mountain  torrents,  rushed 
into  mutual  arms. 

"I  should  think,"  observed  Bob,  "it  must 
have  happened  only  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"Change  the  word  minutes  to  hours,  Bob. 
We  were  staggering  up  the  aisle  of  a  church 
— at  least  I  was  staggering — at  five  o'clock 
this  morning,  to  an  air  from  Lohengrin;  and 
we  were  duly  married ;  and  we  took  forthwith 
the  first  train,  to  speed  to  you,  our  best  friend. 
For  it  is  you  who  are  the  author  of  our  present 
bliss." 

"Good  gracious!"  gasped  the  delighted  boy. 
"How  do  I  come  in?" 

"Your  letters  to  me  about  Lucille,  when 
you  first  saw  her,  put  me  in  love  with  her  un- 
seen." 

"And  your  description   of   Tom   Temple* 


218         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

Bob,"  continued  Lucille,  "had  the  same  won- 
drous effect  on  me." 

"Dan  Cupid,"  continued  Tom,  "must  have 
loaned  you  two  of  his  darts;  and  your  marks- 
manship was  perfect." 

"And  we're  not  only  in  love  with  each 
other,"  added  Lucille,  "but  we're  also  in  love 
with  you,  dear  Bob." 

"And  our  wedding  journey,"  Tom  went  on, 
"would  be  incomplete  without  you." 

"Wedding  journey!"  Bob  echoed. 

"Yes,  wedding  journey.  We've  sped  hither 
to  get  you.  There's  a  train  leaves  in  two 
hours.  So  pack  up  and  off  we  go." 

"This — this  is  so  sudden!"  said  Bob,  won- 
dering whether  he  was  really  awake. 

"That's  what  Lucille  said  when  I  laid  my 
heart  at  her  feet." 

"I  didn't,  and  you  didn't,"  protested  Lu- 
cille. 

"Well,  your  words  were  to  that  effect,  and 
my  actions  came  to  what  I  just  said.  Bob, 
when  Lucille  and  I  met  each  other  for  the  first 
time,  everything  else  was  off.  Everything  you 
said  of  Lucille  was  less  than  true.  From  that 
hour  I  went  about  like  Orlando  in  the  forest 
or  Arden.  The  birds  sang,  and  their  song 
was  Lucille;  the  brooks  murmured  Lucille; 
and  when  I  sat  me  down  to  write  an 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          219 

ode  or  a  sonnet  my  pen  wrote  nothing  but 
Lucille." 

"Some  of  your  best  poems,"  objected  Bob, 
"have  come  out  in  the  last  six  weeks." 

"Oh,  they  weren't  mine,"  answered  the  radi- 
ant poet.  "I  looked  simply  into  Lucille's 
eyes  and  wrote.  Result 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May 
From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray. 

Or  I  looked  into  her  heart,  and  if  my  verses 
were  poor  it  was  because  the  beauty  I  saw 
there  was  'too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a  word.' ' 

"But  how  did  you  get  here  so  soon  after 
your  marriage?"  Bob  asked. 

"We  were  not  married  at  Lucille's  home. 
We  came  south,  to  a  town  in  Indiana,  where 
I  have  a  friend  who  happens  to  be  a  great 
priest,"  answered  Tom.  "You  see,  there  were 
reasons  for  a  quiet  wedding,  too." 

"But  what's  become  of  Anita  and  Tom 
Reade?  I  haven't  heard  a  word  from  them." 

"No  wonder,"  answered  Lucille.  "Anita 
was  flower  girl,  and  she's  been  too  busy  and 
excited  to  write.  My  brother  Tom  has  been 
in  charge  of  arrangements,  and  has  had  no 
time  for  anything  else." 

"And  moreover,"  added  Tom  Temple,  "the 


220         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

eager-eyed  Anita  was  so  afraid  she'd  let  out 
the  secret  of  July  fifth — our  wedding. 
Strange,  Bob,  I  didn't  think  of  it  when  we 
named  the  day;  yet  it's  the  very  anniversary 
of  the  day  your  father  issued  the  edict  of  your 
exile." 

"Yes,  Tom;  and  I'm  free  again,  free  to  re- 
turn to  Dubuque,  free  to  take  up  my  own 
name." 

"Don't  I  know  it?"  said  the  poet.  "And 
that's  why  you're  coming  with  us  to  Dubuque. 
Bob,  we're  going  to  find  out  everything;  and, 
till  we  do,  you  are  our  Bob." 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  boy. 

"We're  going  to  adopt  you." 

"Oh,  go  on,"  said  Bob,  half  in  laughter,  half 
in  tears. 

"Well,  anyhow,  we'll  keep  you  to  be  held 
until  called  for." 

"Ohl"  cried  Lucille,  who  had  gone  to  one  of 
the  windows  looking  out  on  the  street,  "did  you 
ever  see  such  beautiful  children?" 

Tom  and  Bob  rushed  over  to  the  window, 
and  shared  with  Lucille  in  a  sight  which  was 
enough  to  bring  joy  to  any  lover  of  child- 
hood. 

Gathered  about  the  automobile  which  had 
conveyed  the  happy  pair  to  Pioneer  Street  was 
the  flower  of  the  neighborhood,  boys  and  girls 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         221 

in  their  best  attire.  No  sooner  had  the  ma- 
chine stopped  before  Bob's  room  than  Johnny 
O'Brien,  first  taking  note  of  the  handsome 
young  man  and  stately  beauty  who  issued  from 
it,  sped  from  house  to  house  with  the  glowing 
news  that  Bob  Ryan  was  receiving  automobile 
friends  and  that  something  important  was  to 
happen.  Every  house  on  the  street  blessed 
with  boy  or  girl  forthwith  became  a  scene  of 
activity;  with  the  result  that  in  a  few  minutes 
gay  Alice  and  laughing  Elizabeth,  and  Marian 
and  Margaret  Hunter — in  a  word,  all  the 
youth  and  beauty  of  the  street — were  as- 
sembled, forming  a  riot  of  color  around  the 
touring  car.  How  they  rejoiced  over  it!  That 
car,  they  reasoned  with  the  imaginative  logic 
of  childhood,  was  enough  to  rehabilitate  Bob 
in  the  eyes  of  all  his  "salamanders." 

"Look,"  cried  quick-eyed  Johnny  O'Brien, 
"look  at  Bob's  window." 

"Look,"  cried  Bob  from  above,  "aren't  they 
a  nice  set,  though?  They're  all  friends  of 
mine." 

"Hello,  Bob!"  cried  fifty  voices  as  one,  as  at 
young  O'Brien's  words  fifty  smiling  and 
cordial  faces  turned  upward  toward  his  win- 
dow. 

"Hello,  boys  and  girls!" 

"I  say,"  cried  Tom  Temple,  "this  is  too 


222          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

much  for  me.  You  think  I'll  stand  here  and 
see  such  friends — such  wonderful  boys  and 
girls — and  not  shake  hands  with  'em?"  And 
Tom,  catching  Lucille  with  one  arm  and  Bob 
with  the  other,  made  hastily  for  the  stairway. 

"Hello,  boys  and  girls!"  said  Tom  as  they 
reached  the  front  stoop. 

"How  do  you  do,  sir?"  responded  Alice, 
and  those  few  who  were  not  overawed  by  the 
vision. 

"I  understand  that  you  are  all  friends  of 
our  Bob." 

"You  bet  your  boots  1"  cried  Johnny 
O'Brien,  speaking  for  all. 

"Well,  he's  the  best  friend  I  ever  had," 
added  Lucille. 

"They've  both  just  been  married,"  said  Bob, 
smiling  in  his  old  way.  "Did  you  ever  see  a 
lovelier  couple?" 

Screams  and  shouts  of  joy  rent  the  air. 
Alice  rushed  to  Lucille's  side,  and  that  sweet 
young  bride  caught  up  the  child  and  hugged 
her.  Then  Lucille  was  surrounded.  Every 
girl  on  Pioneer  and  in  the  environs  thereof 
pushed  and  struggled  to  be  kiesed  by  the  blush- 
ing beauty — every  girl  and  most  of  the  very 
small  boys. 

When,  after  the  excitement  had  died  down, 
Tom  Temple  asked  the  multitude  whether 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         223 

they  liked  ice  cream  and  had  received  an  earn- 
est and  fervent  answer  in  the  affirmative  from 
the  tots  of  the  assemblage,  the  chauffeur  was 
commissioned  to  get  two  gallons  from  the  near- 
est place;  and,  as  Alice  and  Elizabeth  kindly 
consented  to  enter  the  machine  and  show  him 
the  way,  there  was  sure  to  be  no  serious  de- 
lay. 

It  was  just  then  that  Mr.  Lawton,  turning 
from  Pike  into  Pioneer,  came  into  view.  On 
seeing  the  gay  and  happy  throng,  with  Bob 
the  j  oiliest  and  most  prominent  of  all,  he  was 
minded  to  turn  back  and  seek  some  more  cir- 
cuitous way  to  his  lodging  house.  He  hesi- 
tated, faltered,  turned  half-way  round,  then 
compromised  by  crossing  to  the  other  side  of 
the  street.  Nothing  of  all  this  escaped  the 
watchful  eye  of  Johnny  O'Brien,  and  as  the 
unhappy  man  came  opposite  the  festive  bridal 
party,  Master  Johnny,  the  dead-game  sport, 
shrieked  out  at  the  top  of  his  voice 

"Three  cheers  for  Bob  Ryan." 

And  it  was  Tom  Temple  who  led  the  cheer? 
ing — cheering  the  like  of  which  was  never  be- 
fore heard  in  that  vicinity. 

"Ha!"  said  Johnny  darkly  to  Alice's 
brother,  "I  guess  that  finishes  him  all  right. 
Did  you  see  his  head  go  down?" 

While  the  children  were  discussing  the  ice 


224         HIS  LUCKIEST  TEAR 

cream,  Tom  announced  that  he  was  going  to 
take  Bob  away. 

"For  good?  Oh,  not  for  good!"  implored 
Alice. 

"He'll  see  you  all  again,  children.  In  an 
hour  or  so  we  start  for  his  home  town,  Du- 
buque." 

It  is  to  the  credit  of  Alice  and  Johnny 
O'Brien  that  they  ate  no  more  ice  cream  that 
evening.  Leaving  their  dishes  unfinished, 
they  entered  into  a  secret  conference — a  thing 
not  without  its  difficulties,  as  everybody  of 
consequence  in  that  juvenile  party  came  up  to 
know  what  it  was  all  about. 

"Go  away,"  said  Alice. 

"Make  a  noise  like  a  hoop  and  roll  along," 
said  Johnny  to  each  and  every  one. 

Presently  the  two  revealed  their  discus- 
sion in  low  tones  to  their  curious  friends; 
whereupon  there  was  a  quick  scurrying  to 
homes,  and  Pioneer  Street  was  once  more  de- 
serted. 

Aided  by  the  skilled  hands  of  Lucille,  and 
embarrassed  by  the  bungling  efforts  of  Tom 
Temple,  Bob,  within  an  hour's  time,  having 
packed,  put  his  room  in  order,  attended  to  the 
payment  of  outstanding  debts,  passed  out  from 
the  place  dear  to  him  by  a  thousand  and  one 
beautiful  associations.  He  left  it  regretfully 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         225 

but  bravely,  little  knowing  that  it  was  to  be 
his  room  no  more. 

Outside  all  was  quiet.  Not  a  soul  could  be 
seen  save  the  chauffeur,  wearing  upon  his 
stolid  features  an  expression  too  solemn  to  be 
natural.  Then,  as  the  three  stepped  toward 
the  auto,  suddenly  from  nook  and  corner  and 
cranny  and  doorway  sprang  forth  with  shout 
and  scream  the  entire  juvenile  population  of 
the  street,  with  numerous  friends  from  the 
neighborhood. 

"Surprise!    Surprise!"  piped  the  girls. 

"Hurrah!"  yelled  the  boys. 

Then  Alice  and  Johnny  O'Brien  stepped 
forth,  holding  between  them  a  bouquet  of 
American  Beauties. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thomas  Tentacle,"  said 
Alice,  "we  wish  you  a  happy  wedding  journey, 
with  lots  more  of  them." 

"And  many  happy  returns,"  added  Johnny 
O'Brien.  "And  these  roses  are  red  and  beau- 
tiful, Mrs.  Temple,  and  they're  for  you.  But 
they're  not  in  it  with  your  cheeks." 

Tom  Temple,  for  the  first  and  only  time  in 
this  history,  was  speechless.  Lucille,  speech- 
less, too,  looked  as  though  a  beautiful  sunset 
afterglow  had  passed  into  her  face. 

Then  came  Bob's  turn.     Each  and  every 


226         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

child  approaching  him  handed  him  a  flower, 
saying: 

"Good-by,  Bob." 

There  was  an  embarrassment  of  flowers; 
so  much  that  Tom  and  Lucille  and  the 
chauffeur  were  obliged  to  come  to  Bob's  assist- 
ance. 

"Good-by,  boys  and  girls,"  said  Bob 
hoarsely,  taking  the  last  flower  and  placing  it 
in  his  buttonhole. 

"Good-by,  good-by,"  cried  the  children. 

"God  forgive  me,"  said  Bob  a  minute  later, 
as  the  machine  turned  on  Fourth  Street.  He 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"Why,  Bob,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  for  a  week  or  so  I've  been  blue  and 
discontented.  And  why?  Because  people  I 
don't  really  know  were  saying  unkind  things 
about  me.  How  silly  I  wasl  Let  them  talk 
all  they  like.  Just  look  at  my  friends  1" 

Half  an  hour  later,  as  daylight  and  the 
night  were  merging,  there  dashed  up  to  Bob's 
residence  another  automobile,  from  which 
alighted  a  portly  gentleman,  classical  of  fea- 
ture, and  a  lady  clothed  in  black. 

Alice  and  Elizabeth,  gently  mourning,  were 
seated,  as  it  were  on  guard,  at  the  entrance  to 
the  house. 

?°  id  the  gentleman,  in  a  deep 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         227 

voice,  "but  could  either  of  you  young  ladies 
tell  me  whether  Robert  Ryan  is  in?" 

The  two  young  ladies  jumped  to  their  feet. 

"Please,  sir,"  said  Alice,  "he's  just  gone." 

"What!  Gone?"  cried  the  lady,  in  the  sweet- 
est and  saddest  accents  Alice  had  ever  heard. 

"My  dear  lady,"  said  the  man,  "I  entreat 
you  to  be  calm.  Just  leave  it  to  me.  You 
say  he's  gone,  young  miss?" 

"Yes,  sir;  he  went  off  in  an  automobile  just 
about  half  an  hour  ago,"  answered  Alice. 

"And  where,  may  I  ask,  has  he  gone  to?" 

"He  went  with  the  nicest  man  and  lady, 
who  were  just  married,  to  Dubuque." 

"Oh!"  cried  the  lady. 

"And,"  continued  Alice,  "I'm  afraid  they're 
taking  him  away  for  good.  And  Bob  Ryan 
was  the  nicest  boy  I  ever  saw." 

The  lady  suddenly  bent  down  and  kissed 
Alice,  and  then  took  out  her  handkerchief  and 
wept.  Whereupon  Alice  wept,  too,  and  Eliz- 
abeth, much  affected  and  not  to  be  outdone, 
lifted  up  her  voice  in  grief.  As  for  the  gen- 
tleman, he  looked  as  awkward  and  as  helpless 
as  any  diplomat  in  such  circumstances. 

"My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  after  tugging 
helplessly  at  his  moustache,  "I  beg  you  not  to 
be  cast  down.  Perhaps  we  may  catch  him  at 
the  station  if  we  hurry." 


228         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"It's  g-g-g-gone,"  sputtered  Alice. 

"What's  gone?"  asked  the  man. 

"The  t-t-train.  Johnny  O'Brien  sneaked 
down  to  see,  and  he  telephoned  over  fifteen 
minutes  ago  that  B-Bob  was  smiling  back  at 
him  as  the  c-cars  pulled  out." 

And  as  Alice  resumed  her  weeping  the  man 
helped  the  lady  in  black  into  the  machine. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Tom  Temple  turns  back  time  in  his  flight. 
Old  faces  and  old  friends  once  more. 

"T  THOUGHT  we  were  going  to  Dubuque," 
JL  said  Bob  early  next  morning. 

The  train  had  come  to  a  stop  at  an  obscure 
Iowa  town,  and  Tom  and  Lucille  were  gather- 
ing up  their  belongings. 

"So  we  are,  O  cherub  of  Iowa;  but  there's 
more  than  one  way  of  going  there.  Get  hold 
of  your  things,  Bob." 

Awaiting  them  outside  was  a  touring  car. 

"Oh!"  cried  Bob.  "I  think  I  see  now.  We're 
going  to  travel  in  this  machine." 

"Right-o.  Jump  in.  You  think  you  see; 
but  you  don't." 

For  many  golden  minutes  Lucille,  fresh  as 
a  flower  dew-sprinkled  and  in  early  blossom, 
and  Tom,  running  over  with  animal  spirits, 
vied  with  each  other  in  entertaining  the  happy 
boy.  How  a  few  hours  had  changed  him! 
All  his  troubles  were  gone — driven  utterly 
away  by  the  advent  of  love. 

It  was  only  when  the  automobile  came  to  a 
stop  that  the  conversation  ceased.  Bob  looked 
about  him,  took  a  deep  breath,  and  cried: 

229 


230         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Why!  If  this  doesn't  look  like  old  times! 
Say,  Lucille,  pinch  me;  I  must  be  dreaming. 
Surely,  I  know  this  spot." 

Before  him,  placid,  broad,  grand,  dimpling 
in  the  sun,  lay  the  Mississippi  river. 

"Jump  out,  Bob,"  ordered  Tom.  "We'll 
take  a  walk  down  to  the  bank.  Here,  Lucille, 
you  take  care  of  him  while  I  speak  to  the 
chauffeur." 

"This  river  is  dear  to  me,"  said  Lucille, 
holding  Bob's  hand,  as  the  two  walked  down 
toward  the  bank. 

"It  was  somewhere  about  here,"  said  Bob, 
"that  I  met  Matt  Morris,  one  of  my  best 
friends.  It  is  clear  to  me." 

"It  was  on  these  banks,"  said  Lucille,  "that 
I  met  you." 

"Thank  you,  Lucille.  And  it  was  on  this 
river  that  I  motored  the  best  boat  a  boy  could 
have.  It  was  on  this  river  that  I  had  that  won- 
derful picnic,  and  I  bade  Mrs.  Symmes  good- 
by,  and  she  gave  me  the  best  dog  in  the  world." 

"And  it  was  on  these  banks,  these  bonny 

banks,"   continued   Lucille,    "that   Tom   and 
j »» 

Here  Lucille  stopped  and  blushed  into  a 
new  phase  of  beauty. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Bob.  "It 
was  on  these  banks  that  you  named  the  day." 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         281 

Lucille's  silvery  laugh  was  yet  ringing  on 
the  magic  air  of  the  golden  morning,  when, 
skirting  a  growth  of  bushes,  Bob  saw  a  sight 
which  brought  his  hand  to  his  eyes. 

"My  goodness  me!"  he  cried,  after  another 
look.  "It's  The  Wanderer" 

"Exactly,"  said  Tom,  catching  up  with 
them,  "the  happy  Wanderer,  at  your  service, 
Bob,  as  long  as  you  want  it." 

"What — what — does  this  mean?"  asked 
Bob. 

"It  seems,  O  cherub  of  Iowa,"  said  Tom, 
clapping  Bob  on  the  back,  "that  we're  going 
to  turn  Time  back  in  his  flight.  Jump  aboard, 
young  man,  and  convey  us  to  the  sylvan  abode 
of  the  woodland  Apollo  known  to  mortals  as 
Matt  Morris." 

It  was  a  happy  pilot  who  sent  The  Wan- 
derer spinning  down  the  river.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments they  touched  land.  Bob's  eyes  danced 
as  in  a  glance  he  picked  out  the  old  canoe, 
hidden  in  the  old  place.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  nearly  a  year  had  passed  since  he  last 
saw  it. 

"Oh,  but  this  looks  good!"  exclaimed  the 
boy,  jumping  out  of  the  boat.  "That  canoe 
makes  me  feel  certain  that  Matt's  here  again." 

"Right  you  are,  Bob!"  And  Matt  Morris, 
taller,  bigger,  finer  than  ever,  sprang  from  be- 


232          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

hind  a  tree  and  threw  himself  upon  his  old 
mate. 

The  violence  of  their  welcome  merged  into  a 
friendly  wrestling  contest,  in  which  Bob,  to 
Matt's  supreme  joy,  held  his  own  perfectly. 

"Excuse  me,"  Matt  said,  turning  to  Lu- 
cille, "but  Bob  and  I  just  naturally  mix  it  up 
whenever  we  meet.  I'm  so  glad  to  meet  you 
again.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Temple?" 

"If  I  did  like  you,"  returned  the  poet,  "I'd 
go  to  a  hospital  for  repairs.  The  strenuous 
life  is  certainly  yours." 

"That's  the  way  Bob  and  I  used  to  carry 
on,  day  in,  day  out.  Say,  Bob,  you're  stronger 
than  ever.  My,  what  a  player  you'd  make  for 
our  team — even  now,  though  you're  not  quite 
fifteen!  Oh,  how  I  wish  you  could  come  to 
Campion  College  I" 

"And  maybe  I  don't  wish  it  either,"  re- 
turned Bob.  "I'm  in  love  with  Campion  the 
way  Tom  was  in  love  with  Lucille,  and  the  way 
Lucille  was  in  love  with  Tom." 

"What's  the  answer?"  queried  Matt. 

"They  loved  each  other  before  they  met. 
I've  never  seen  Campion ;  but  I  have  heard  of 
it.  And  you're  there,  and  Tom  Reade,  one 
of  the  nicest  boys  in  the  world,  is  there." 

"Not  much,"  said  a  new  voice;  "he's  right 
here,  and  on  the  job."  And  Tom  Reade  him- 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          233 

self,  dashing  down  the  steep  ascent,  landed, 
before  Bob  could  turn,  squarely  upon  that 
robust  youth's  shoulders. 

"And  what,"  asked  the  beaming  Bob,  after 
the  first  excitement  of  greeting  had  passed, 
"brings  you  here?" 

"Matt  and  I  are  partners  this  summer,  Bob ; 
and  I  beg  to  announce  that  breakfast  is  served. 
Follow  me."  And  Tom,  holding  Bob's  hand, 
dashed  up  the  ascent. 

The  eager  Bob  was  anything  but  loath  to 
be  thus  laid  captive.  Even  Tom  and  Lucille, 
entering  into  the  spirit  of  the  place,  trotted 
after  the  leader.  It  was  a  breathless  crowd 
that  seated  themselves  at  the  improvised  table 
in  Matt's  sylvan  retreat.  The  cooking,  excel- 
lent as  it  was,  could  not  compare  with  the  ap- 
petites upon  which  it  waited.  Tom  Temple, 
toward  the  conclusion  of  the  meal,  declared 
that  it  was  the  greatest  wedding  breakfast  in 
song  or  story. 

Toward  the  close  of  this  never-to-be-forgot- 
ten breakfast  Tom  Reade,  trying  to  attract  as 
little  attention  as  possible,  slipped  back  into 
the  cave.  After  a  few  seconds  he  appeared 
once  more,  and  cried  out: 

"Say,  Bob,  what  was  the  name  of  that  dog 
of  yours?" 

"Hobo,"  shouted  Bob. 


234          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

At  the  word,  out  from  the  cave  sprang  a 
shining-eyed  dog.  Bob's  hands  relaxed,  and 
from  them  a  plate  dropped  upon  the  stone 
floor  and  broke  into  fragments. 

"Hobo!"  he  cried  once  more;  and  at  the 
word  the  dog  ran  to  him  and  raised  eyes  of 
tender  inquiry. 

"It's  Hobo  the  Second,"  exclaimed  Tom 
Reade.  "It  took  me  a  week  to  discover  him. 
He's  a  blood  relative  of  your  dog,  Bob,  and  as 
like  him,  almost,  as  it's  possible  for  one  dog  to 
resemble  another." 

"And  it's  your  dog,  Bob,"  said  Matt.  "It's 
our  present." 

"By  George!"  exclaimed  Bob,  having  se- 
cured in  a  few  seconds  Hobo's  undying  love, 
"this  thing  is  all  like  a  dream." 

"It's  more  like  'when  dreams  come  true,' ' 
corrected   Tom   Temple,   darting   an   ardent 
glance  at  Lucille. 

"I  wish,"  said  Tom  Reade,  "that  you  peo- 
ple would  cut  out  the  sentiment  stuff  and  help 
clean  up." 

"That's  right,"  said  Matt,  "we  start  in  fif- 
teen minutes." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Bob. 

"Never  you  mind,  Bob  Ryan,  just  get 
ready." 

And  twenty  minutes  later  they  were  aboard 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          235 

The  Wanderer — the  wedding  pair,  Tom 
Reade,  Matt  Morris,  Bob  Ryan,  and  Hobo  II. 
They  landed  presently  at  another  familiar 
spot,  and  proceeded  to  visit  the  little  church 
where  Bob  had  made  his  first  Communion. 
The  visit  was  short  but  fervent,  and  the  prayer 
of  all  was  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving. 

Up  the  river  they  pursued  their  happy  way. 
At  noon  time  they  reached  a  little  town,  where 
at  an  inn  there  awaited  them  a  dainty  lunch, 
but,  as  Bob  and  the  two  boys  with  perfect 
justice  considered,  a  very  light  one. 

The  touring  car  was  there,  too.  Every- 
thing, Bob  could  not  but  observe,  had  been 
prearranged.  Over  hill  and  dale  they  went 
at  top  speed.  At  top  speed,  too,  went  the 
hours.  It  was  a  continuous  carnival  of  joy. 

About  four  o'clock,  however,  the  younger 
members  of  the  party,  Bob,  Tom  Reade,  and 
Matt,  began  to  look  a  trifle  uneasy. 

"What's  the  matter,  boys?"  asked  Lucille. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  answered  Matt. 

"Nothing,"  echoed  Tom  Reade.  "I 
wouldn't  say  nothing  myself,  but  that's  what 
my  stomach  is  saying." 

"That  lunch  we  took,"  added  Bob,  "was 
very  nice  indeed ;  but  it  was  rather  light." 

"How  long  can  you  hold  out,  Bob?"  asked 
the  poet. 


236         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"Oh,  I  guess  I  can  stand  it,  Tom,  as  long 
as  you  like." 

"For  such  a  lovely  couple,"  observed  Tom 
Reade,  looking  severely  at  Lucille,  "I'm  will- 
ing to  starve." 

"Halloa!"  cried  Bob,  jumping  up  and  gaz- 
ing intently  ahead,  "as  sure  as  my  name's  Bob, 
if  that  isn't  the  Blue  Bird  Inn!" 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  machine  drew  up  be- 
fore the  quaint  old  hostelry. 

Then  out  came,  screaming,  Anita,  leaping 
up  and  down  like  a  jumping- jack.  She  threw 
herself  upon  Bob  and  gave  him  a  welcome 
more  easily  imagined  than  described.  And 
before  Bob  was  quite  finished  with  paying  his 
respects  to  the  ardent  young  lady  forth  came 
Mrs.  Corcoran,  her  laugh  ringing  birdlike  in 
the  air,  and  Albert,  his  face  running  over  with 
smiles  and  glowing  with  the  "warm  South." 
Close  behind  these  two  followed  mine  host  and 
his  amiable  wife;  and  then,  to  complete  the 
party,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Reade  with  their  happy 
children.  A  perfect  storm  of  greeting  en- 
sued— hugging,  hand-shaking,  laughter,  and 
what  not,  in  which  all  took  an  active  part  save 
Masters  Tom  Reade  and  Matt  Morris.  These 
young  gentlemen  were  properly  disgusted, 
and  Tom  made  no  secret  of  it. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  snatching  Lucille  bodily 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          237 

from  the  embrace  of  Mrs.  Symmes,  "are  we 
to  starve  to  death  while  you  people  act  like  a 
lot  of  howling  hyenas  on  parade?" 

Mrs.  Symmes,  breaking  into  a  laugh — a 
laugh  the  twin  of  her  newly  found  sister's — 
clapped  her  hands  and  cried: 

"Dinner's  served." 

Tom  Reade  and  Matt  Morris  rushed  for  the 
house. 

It  was  then  that  the  boys  understood  the 
reason  of  the  light  lunch.  A  banquet  was 
awaiting  them,  a  banquet  prepared  by  Mrs. 
Symmes  and  Mrs.  Corcoran,  the  two  most 
wonderful  cooks,  Tom  Temple  averred,  since 
the  days  of  Lucullus. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Bob  to  Anita,  "that 
I  believe  this  has  been  the  happiest  day  of  my 
life?" 

"It's  been  mine,  too,  Bob,"  said  Anita. 
"Bob,  are  you  going  to  stay  with  me 
always?" 

Bob  laughed.  He  was  about  to  frame  a 
reply  when  Tom  Temple  announced: 

"Let  everybody  get  ready.  In  fifteen  min- 
utes we  take  a  boat  ride  on  the  river." 

"Goodness  gracious,  Anita!"  said  Bob, 
"what's  next?  I'm  getting  dizzy." 

"It's  a  secret,  Bob,"  Anita  made  answer. 
"And  did  you  miss  my  letters,  Bob?" 


238         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

"I  should  say  I  did.  The  loss  of  them  made 
me  blue." 

"I'm  just  tickled  to  know  that,"  said  Anita. 

Once  more  The  Wanderer,  brought  up  the 
river  by  a  motor  truck,  was  awaiting  them,  and 
into  it,  by  some  miracle  of  squeezing  and  con- 
triving, entered  the  entire  Reade  family,  Tom 
Temple,  Matt  Morris,  Albert  Corcoran  and 
mother,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Symmes,  Bob 
Ryan,  and,  of  course,  Hobo  II. 

It  was  nearing  sunset.  The  water,  the  air, 
the  woodlands,  the  singing  birds,  all  united  to 
make  this  hour  what  Bob  described  as  the  close 
of  a  perfect  day.  But  justice  compels  me  to 
state  that  these  meaner  beauties  were  lost 
sight  of  in  the  intercourse  of  love  and  laughter 
and  news  of  this  chosen  party.  Indeed,  there 
was  talk  and  laughter  a  plenty,  talk  and 
laughter  and  song,  in  which  the  praises  of 
Campion  College,  you  may  be  sure,  were  not 
overlooked  by  that  promising  singer,  Matt 
Morris.  In  the  rich  afterglow  of  a  flawless 
sunset,  Bob  Ryan,  retiring,  as  it  were,  into 
his  own  heart,  fell  into  a  meditation  of  pure 
thankfulness,  when  Anita's  caressing  hand 
upon  his  shoulder  aroused  him. 

"Look,  Bob,"  she  said.  "Over  there.  Don't 
you  know  it?" 

Bob  followed  her  gesture,  and  gave  a  cry 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          239 

of  joy,  as  he  steered  the  vessel  toward  the 
shore,  where,  neatly  shaved  and  dressed  in  a 
store  suit,  stood  a  smiling  old  man;  and,  en- 
veloped in  a  cloak  which  gave  her  the  appear- 
ance of  Mother  Hubbard,  with  hands  reaching 
out  toward  him,  his  ancient  wife — Mr.  and 
Mrs,  Moss, 


CHAPTER  XIX 

In  which  one  surprise  follows  upon  another. 

' '  T  T  EY  !"  roared  the  ancient  of  the  river  bank, 

*  *  removing  his  hat  and  bowing  low, 
"Mistaire  Bob.  How  you  do?" 

Bob  caught  the  venerable  and  horny  right 
hand  and  shook  it  up  and  down  until  the  aged 
consort,  sweeping  Mose  aside  with  a  backhand 
gesture  which  nearly  cost  her  the  loss  of  her 
cloak,  took  her  turn  at  greeting.  And  while 
Mrs.  Mose  made  a  carefully  prepared  speech 
about  the  prodigal  son's  return  and  there  being 
a  glut  of  fatted  calves  to  celebrate  with,  Mose 
bowed  and  beamed  upon  each  and  every  mem- 
ber of  the  party. 

"Where's  Tom  Temple  going?"  asked  Bob, 
noticing  that  Tom  had  got  into  the  touring 
car. 

"If  he  wanted  you  to  know,"  returned  the 
old  lady,  "he'd  have  told  you.  Isn't  he  the 
gay  groom,  though?  Mose  and  I  consider 
him  the  most  wonderful  young  man.  Mose 
says  he's  the  greatest  poet  living." 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  the  boy.  "Have 
you  read  some  of  Tom's  poems  to  Mose?" 

240 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          241 

"I  have  not,"  returned  the  venerable  blue- 
eyed  lady.  "And  no  one  else  has.  But  Mose 
says  he  can  tell  by  the  looks  of  him  that  Tom 
is  the  greatest  living  poet.  And  Mose,"  she 
added  in  a  tone  of  conviction,  "is  right." 

"You've  read  some  of  his  poems,  then?" 

"I  have  not,  Bob.  I  don't  go  in  for  poetry. 
But  I'm  old  enough  to  tell  a  poet  when  I  see 
one." 

"Anna,"  said  Mose,  "you  go  up  by  the  house 
and  see  to  the  lemonade,  while  I  talk  to  Bob. 
Hey,  Bob,"  he  went  on  as  the  old  woman,  not 
without  visible  signs  of  reluctance,  made  for 
the  ancient  hut,  "I  am  ver'  glad  to  see  you — 
oh,  so  glad,  Bob" — here  the  massive  right  fore- 
finger came  into  play — "I  tell  you  something. 
From  the  day  you  leave  till  this  day  you  re- 
turn I  pray  for  you  eve'y  nide.  I  never  for- 
get. I  pray  for  you — so."  The  venerable  man 
raised  his  big  eyes  toward  the  heavens,  fold- 
ing at  the  same  time  his  big  hands.  "And 
Anna,  she  pray,  too.  And  we  pray  for  Tom 
Temple,  too — Tom  the  great  poeter." 

"Thank  you,"  returned  Bob.  "Do  you 
know  all  these  people?" 

"Bob,  I  no  lie  to  you.  These  people,  your 
friends,  they  my  friends,  too.  If  I  no  treat 
them  right — God  Almighty,  He  punish  me, 
the  way  He  punish  the  widow  woman  when  the 


242          HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

widow  he  tole  a  lie  to  God  Almighty.    He  turn 
the  widow  woman's  boy  into  a  tombear." 

Around  Bob  and  Mose  all  had  now 
gathered;  and  Bob  introduced  Mose  by  name 
to  every  one  present. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mose,  when 
he  had  bowed  profoundly  to  each,  "I  tell  you 
somet'ing.  I  now  eighty-five  year  old,  and 
my  wife— 

"Here,  Mose,  you  let  me  out." 

"My  wife,  he  older  than  me." 

"Her  ears  are  thirty  years  younger," 
snapped  the  old  lady. 

"And  now,"  Mose  went  on,  "I  weak  in  my 
legs,  becos  they  is  roomatiz.  But  when  I 
young,  I  was  the  strongest  man  from  Daven- 
port to  Dubuque." 

"He  looks  strong  yet,"  observed  Matt  Mor- 
ris critically.  "Just  observe  his  shoulders  and 
that  neck  of  his." 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  continued  the  an- 
cient, throwing  his  hat  away  that  he  might 
gesticulate  more  freely.  "I  no  lie  to  you — I 
tell  you  the  troot — I  neider  read  nor  write." 

Mose  then  went  on  to  give  a  faithful  but  in- 
coherent account  of  his  life,  his  wife  at  times 
supplying  caustic  footnotes. 

While  the  old  man,  beaming  with  benevo- 
lence, discoursed  simply  of  his  former  deeds, 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         243 

there  was  a  great  stir  and  bustle  about  his 
house  higher  up  on  the  bank.  Several  men, 
genii,  it  may  be,  brought  together  by  the  Alad- 
din of  the  occasion,  Mr.  Tom  Temple,  were 
stringing  ropes  from  tree  to  tree. 

Whether  by  accident  or  design,  old  Mose, 
standing  at  the  river's  edge,  held  the  eyes  of 
the  assemblage  to  such  purpose  that  none  of 
them  was  aware  of  those  swift  workers.  Mose 
Was  of  interest  to  all.  His  stories  were  good, 
his  idioms  were  curious,  and  his  gestures  and 
intonation  were  enough  to  give  new  ideas  to 
professional  elocutionists. 

It  was  fast  growing  dark,  and  the  very 
younger  set  were  fast  growing  thirsty. 

Anita  whispered  to  Bob,  "Say,  Bob,  didn't 
you  hear  something  about  lemonade?" 

"I'm  pretty  thirsty  myself,"  answered  Bob. 

Anita  turned,  pulling  Bob  with  her. 

"Oh!"  cried  Bob. 

Anita  screamed. 

The  home  of  Mose  was  hung  about  with  a 
profusion  of  Japanese  lanterns. 

At  Anita's  scream  all  turned  and  won- 
dered. 

"A  belated  Fourth  of  July,  fair  friends," 
cried  Tom  Temple,  standing  at  the  door  of 
the  illuminated  hut. 

At  the  words  a  rocket  shot  into  the  air;  a 


244         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

giant  pinwheel,  fastened  to  one  of  the  trees, 
spun  and  sputtered  into  flaming  loveliness; 
Roman  candles,  held  by  unknown  hands, 
spurted  out  balls,  yellow,  green,  glorious, 
golden,  and  for  fully  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the 
night  was  made  splendid. 

•"One  word,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said 
Tom,  approaching  them  at  the  close  of  the 
pyrotechnics.  "For  the  past  twenty-four 
hours  I've  not  been  quite  certain  whether  it 
was  I  who  got  married  or  Bob  Ryan.  By 
right  Lucille  ought  to  be  the  shining  mark, 
and  I  ought  to  come  a  distant  second.  But 
it's  not  so  at  all.  Everything  is  Bob  Ryan. 
Everybody's  glad  to  see  him.  As  for  Lucille 
and  myself,  one  would  think  we'd  been  mar- 
ried for  twenty  years.  To  be  serious,  it  has 
been  my  dream  for  many  a  moon  to  return  to 
the  old  places  made  dear  to  me  by  their  asso- 
ciations with  that  part  of  my  speckled  career 
which  led  to  my  meeting  my  best  friend  and 
the  finest,  the  loveliest,  lady  in  the  land.  My 
new  life  began  here  in  the  home  of  honest  Mose 
and  his  wife.  It  was  here  that  I  lost  Bob  and 
found  myself.  And  I  have  brought  all  Bob's 
friends — and  may  I  say  mine,  too? — together 
here,  that  we,  Bob  and  I,  may  fight  our  battles 
o'er  and  tell  how  fields  are  won." 

Tom  paused,  took  out  his  handkerchief,  and 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         245 

wiped  his  heated  brow.  As  the  applause  sub- 
sided, the  sound  of  an  automobile  as  it  swept 
up  to  the  house  of  Mose  brought  all  to  fresh 
attention. 

"Do  you  think  it's  another  surprise?"  Anita 
asked  Bob,  as  a  man  jumped  from  the  ma- 
chine and  helped  a  woman  to  alight. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  answered  Bob.  "This 
day  is  so  full  of  surprises,  though,  that  I'm 
getting  hardened  to  them." 

The  man,  a  portly  gentleman,  dignified  in 
gait,  although  his  walk  was  brisk,  was  advanc- 
ing toward  the  party  as  Bob  spoke. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  removing 
his  hat  and  bowing  with  Old- World  courtesy, 
"I  beg  pardon  for  intruding  on  what  I  clearly 
see  is  a  gathering  of  friends,  but  I  have  a  ques- 
tion to  ask  which  I  think  so  important  that  it 
can  not  be  deferred.  Is  there  a  young  gentle- 
man here  answering  to  the  name  of  Bob 
Ryan?" 

Amidst  a  chorus  of  puzzled  assents  Anita, 
holding  Bob  by  the  hand,  stepped  forward. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  introduce  to  you 
my  best,  my  bestest  friend — Bob  Ryan." 

The  man  shook  Bob's  hand  warmly  and 
deferentially. 

"Bob  Ryan,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  come 
with  me  and  to  ask  you  a  few  questions  of  a 


246          Hit  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

strictly  private  nature,  the  answers  to  which, 
truthfully  given,  can  not  hurt  you  in  the  least 
and  may  prove  to  be  most  extraordinarily  to 
your  advantage.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  will 
you  kindly  excuse  Bob  for  a  few  minutes?" 

An  extraordinary  change  had  come  upon 
the  assembled  party.  The  atmosphere  seemed 
surcharged  with  some  great  secret.  Some- 
thing strange  was  about  to  happen.  As  Bob 
walked  off  with  the  strange  man  all  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  boy. 

Half-way  up  the  slope  leading  to  Mose's 
house  the  man  halted  Bob  and  held  him  with  a 
whispered  dialogue.  The  man  became  very 
nervous  and  excited.  He  began  presently  to 
rub  his  hands,  and  bending  down  to  glance  at 
the  boy's  face,  as  though  he  would  read  his 
soul.  Finally  he  took  Bob's  hand,  and  made  a 
sign  toward  the  woman,  who  had  remained 
standing  near  the  auto. 

The  friends  of  Bob,  several  of  them  catch- 
ing their  breath,  looked  on  in  absorbed  silence. 

At  the  man's  signal  the  lady  hastened 
toward  Bob. 

"Now,  ma'am,"  they  heard  him  say,  "be 
calm.  You  must  be  calm.  I  don't  think  there 
can  be  any  mistake,  but — here,  let  me  ask  him 
a  few  questions  in  your  presence." 

Under   the   light   of   the   lanterns,    which 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         247 

brought  out  the  faces  of  Bob  and  his  two  in- 
terrogators, ensued  a  scene  which  none  who 
saw  it  on  that  eventful  night  will  ever  for- 
get. 

The  man  stood  in  the  center,  holding  Bob 
with  one  hand,  the  woman  with  the  other.  A 
great  wonder  was  on  Bob's  face,  an  overmas- 
tering anxiety  on  the  woman's,  on  the  man's 
an  air  of  absorbing  excitement.  He  appeared 
to  be  asking  Bob  questions.  Several  times 
Bob  nodded  his  head  in  assent.  Then  the  man 
paused — the  beads  of  sweat  dropping  from 
his  face — held  up  his  hand,  and  apparently 
asking  Bob  to  do  the  same.  It  was  evident  to 
all  that  Bob  was  testifying  on  oath.  As  Bob 
dropped  his  hand  the  woman  addressed  him. 
Bob  opened  his  mouth,  uttered  one  word,  and 
then 

The  man  released  their  hands  and  pulled  out 
his  handkerchief;  the  woman  .gave  a  cry  of 
exquisite  joy;  and  Bob,  his  face  irradiated, 
threw  his  arms  about  her. 

As  they  thus  stood,  the  man,  rubbing  his 
eyes  and  turning  toward  the  transfixed  party, 
exclaimed  in  a  broken  voice: 

"It's  his  mother!" 


CHAPTER  XX 

In  which  the  mystery  of  Bob's  childhood  is 
cleared  up,  and  he  enters  upon  a  new  life. 

THE  announcement  sent  a  thrill  of  awe 
through  the  listeners.  Incoherent  ejacu- 
lations, low  murmurs,  and  all  manner  of  ex- 
clamations gradually  merged  into  expressions 
of  pure  joy.  Then  suddenly  from  the  crowd 
burst  the  great-souled  Anita  and,  darting 
straight  at  Bob  and  his  mother,  cried  as  she 
sped: 

"Mrs.  Ryan,  if  you're  Bob's  mother  you 
must  kiss  me,  too." 

Fast  after  the  flying  Anita  bounded  Hobo 
II,  and  as  the  lady  disengaged  herself  from 
Bob  and  threw  her  arms  about  the  girl,  the 
dog,  barking  and  jumping,  circled  about  the 
three  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight. 

Then  Bob,  holding  his  mother's  hand,  with 
Anita  clinging  to  both,  walked  toward  the 
group. 

"Do  you  know,  mother,"  he  whispered, 
"that  we  met  once?" 

"Indeed  I  do,  Robert.  You  were  the  boy 
that  picked  up  my  package  as  I  seated  my- 
self in  a  car." 

248 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR          249 

"And  I  knew  you  at  once  when  I  saw  you, 
mother;  but  I  didn't  suspect  that  I  was  your 
son.  I  knew  you  as  the  Lady  in  Black.  Say," 
he  cried,  raising  his  voice,  "this  is  my  dear 
mother,  Mrs.  Marion  Leslie." 

"God  bless  you  all,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie.  "For 
years  I  have  been  grieving  for  my  motherless 
boy.  But  I  know  now  that  God  has  given 
him  loving  hearts  to  take  my  place." 

"And  this,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie's  escort,  catch- 
ing Bob  by  the  shoulders,  "is  Robert  Leslie, 
the  only  son  of  Mrs.  Marion  Leslie.  Permit 
me  also  to  introduce  myself.  I  am  Thomas 
Coleman,  Mrs.  Leslie's  personal  friend  and  at- 
torney." 

"But  what  about  that  father  of  Bob's?" 
asked  Tom  Temple,  after  the  lawyer  and  hifr 
sweet  client  had  shaken  hands  with  each  and 
every  one,  "the  fellow  who  threw  him  out  into 
the  world." 

"That  was  not  his  father,"  said  Mr.  Cole' 
man. 

"Good!"  cried  Tom.    "I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

"Suppose,"  continued  Mr.  Coleman,  "that 
we  all  come  up  to  the  immediate  premises  of 
our  friend  Mose,  and  while  Robert  Leslie  and 
his  mother  have  a  heart-to-heart  talk  I  will 
tell  you  their  story." 

It  took  little  time  to  follow  the  lawyer's 


250         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

suggestion.  Mr.  Coleman  had  held  many  a 
jury  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  but  never  in  all 
his  experience  had  he  so  attentive  an  audience 
as  the  one  now  before  him. 

"Some  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  ago,"  he 
began,  "there  lived  in  a  small  Ohio  village  a 
lovely  young  girl — educated  in  a  convent 
school  and  of  a  most  winning  personality.  Her 
parents  were  apparently  in  good  circum- 
stances. When  at  the  age  of  eighteen  the  girl 
was  graduated  from  the  convent  school  in  Cin- 
cinnati, she  returned  home  just  in  time  to  take 
up  the  duties  of  the  household,  for  her  mother 
went  into  a  swift  decline,  and  after  her  death 
the  father  lost  all  interest  in  his  business.  Very 
soon  he  broke  down,  and  shortly  followed 
his  wife — leaving  the  girl  penniless. 

"Then  John  R.  Leslie,  a  young  lawyer  of 
great  promise,  to  whom  she  had  been  engaged, 
insisted  on  a  private  marriage  almost  at  once. 
Mr.  Leslie,  born  out  of  the  Catholic  Church, 
had  been  induced  by  the  girl  to  study  the  Cath- 
olic teachings.  God  gave  him  the  faith  and  he 
was  baptized  on  the  day  of  their  marriage. 
Mr.  Leslie's  parents,  on  learning  that  their 
son  and  heir  had  embraced  the  Catholic  faith, 
were  furious.  They  forbade  him  their  house 
and  refused  to  recognize  him  as  their  son.  In 
ronsequence,  the  young  couple,  being  resolved 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         251 

to  make  their  own  way,  left  for  another  part 
of  the  State,  where  Mr.  Leslie  hung  out  his 
shingle  and  contrived  to  make  just  enough  to 
support  his  wife. 

"In  course  of  time  there  was  born  to  them  a 
son  and  heir — Robert  Leslie.  In  the  eyes  of 
his  mother  and  father  he  was  the  finest  baby 
in  the  world.  Judging  from  what  little  I  have 
seen  of  him,"  added  the  lawyer,  with  a  smile, 
"I  believe  they  were  right." 

"They  were,  absolutely,"  said  Tom  Temple. 

"Their  married  life,  hitherto  an  ideal  one," 
continued  the  lawyer,  "was  now  a  thing  of 
bliss.  The  father,  a  big,  hearty,  whole-souled 
man,  who,  by  the  way,  was  built  very  much 
on  the  lines  of  Bob,  could  never  bring  him- 
self to  believe  that  his  parents  would  not  relent. 
He  felt  that  he  and  his  wife  were  undergoing 
a  temporary  exile.  He  sent  them  a  letter  giv- 
ing an  account  of  young  Bob,  aged  seven  days. 
The  letter  came  back  unopened. 

"Mr.  Leslie  did  not  lose  courage.  He  was 
mystified  at  the  conduct  of  his  parents,  and 
said  that  they  would  surely  forget  and  forgive 
in  a  year.  Before  a  year  had  passed  the  brave 
young  fellow,  in  attempting  to  rescue  a  drown- 
ing child — an  attempt  in  which  he  succeeded — 
lost  his  life. 

"As  I  have  said,  he  was  a  very  good  lawyer. 


252         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

Now,  gentlemen  of  the — oh,  I  beg  your  par- 
don!— Now,  my  friends,  a  good  lawyer  is  a 
man  who  can  attend  in  the  most  wonderful 
way  to  other  people's  business;  but  just  as 
likely  as  not  he  is  a  baby  in  taking  care  of  his 
own.  So  it  came  to  pass  that  he  died  with- 
out any  insurance  on  his  life  or  anything  in 
the  bank  beyond  enough  money  to  cover  the 
funeral  expenses  and  pay  his  outstanding 
debts.  Poor  Mrs.  Leslie — I  hope,  by  the  way, 
she's  not  listening— 

"You  needn't  worry,"  said  Tom,  "Bob  and 
his  mother — and  the  dog — are  walking  on  the 
road  Bob  traversed  with  me  one  year  ago." 

"Very  good.  As  I  was  saying,  poor  Mrs. 
Leslie,  who  knew  less  about  business  than  most 
young  wives,  was  at  her  wits'  end.  She  wrote 
a  pitiful  letter  to  her  husband's  people.  That 
letter,  with  its  black-bordered  envelope,  came 
back  unopened.  In  the  light  of  what  we  have 
since  learned  it  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  she 
did  not  take  the  train  and  visit  these  people 
personally.  For  her  husband  was  absolutely 
right.  The  old  people  were  ready  and  willing 
and  waiting  to  forget  and  forgive." 

"How  about  those  returned  letters,  then?" 
asked  Mr.  Reade. 

"The  question,"  returned  Mr.  Coleman, 
judicially,  "is  eminently  fair  and  in  order. 
The  fact  is  that  the  old  people  never  saw  those 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         253 

letters.  There  lived  with  them  a  spinster,  their 
nearest  of  kin  after  their  son.  This  gentle 
creature,  with  an  inquisitiveness  which  we 
wonder  at  without  admiring  in  certain  women, 
inspected  every  piece  of  mail  that  came  into 
the  house.  It  was  to  her  interest  to  prevent 
reconciliation;  and  she  certainly  put  her  mind 
to  it.  She  saw  to  it  that  these  letters  did  not 
go  beyond  the  threshold. 

"Mrs.  Leslie,  then,  timid,  shrinking,  tried 
to  earn  a  living  with  the  needle  for  herself  and 
her  six-months-old  child ;  for  nearly  a  year  she 
dragged  out  a  precarious  existence.  Toward 
the  end  of  that  year  there  came  into  her  life  a 
certain  hatchet-faced  young  man,  Thomas 
Evans  by  name,  who  apparently  did  every- 
thing to  help  her.  He  got  her  work,  he  showed 
her  all  manner  of  kindness;  and  he  proposed. 
He  made  his  proposal,  as  they  say,  at  the 
psychological  moment.  It  was  when  work 
was  slack,  times  hard,  and  the  child  was  show- 
ing unfavorable  symptoms,  resulting,  as  the 
mother  thought,  from  insufficient  nourishment. 

"Almost  in  despair,  she  consented.  They 
were  to  be  married  privately  by  a  priest,  in  a 
village  some  thirty  miles  distant.  On  the 
appointed  day,  and  arrived  at  the  appointed 
place,  Mrs.  Leslie  was  brought  before  a  squire. 
But  Evans,  a  bitter  bigot,  though  he  had  kept 
this  side  of  him  from  her,  had  reckoned  with- 


254         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

out  his  host.  She  became  indignant.  She  re- 
minded him  of  his  promise  to  secure  a  Cath- 
olic priest  for  the  ceremony. 

"Then  Evans,  losing  his  temper,  said  such 
things  about  her  Church  as  opened  her  eyes. 
She  declared  that  under  no  circumstances 
could  she  think  of  marrying  such  a  man.  Upon 
this  Evans,  in  a  towering  rage,  getting  into  the 
machine  which  had  conveyed  them  thither,  left 
her  to  get  home  as  best  she  might. 

"She  had  no  money.  She  attempted  to  walk 
home,  and  was  picked  up  on  the  road  uncon- 
scious and  brought  to  a  hospital,  where  for 
months  she  struggled  for  her  life.  When  she 
left  the  hospital  she  succeeded  in  getting  home, 
only  to  learn  that  Evans  had  disappeared  with 
the  child  on  the  day  of  the  proposed  wedding. 

"And  what  could  she  do?  The  daily  papers 
might  have  helped  her;  but  news  four  months 
old  is  no  news.  Money  she  had  none.  More- 
over, she  was  temporarily  broken  in  spirit. 
So  she  prayed  and  hoped  and  worked  and 
wept.  Her  life  was  a  life  of  sorrow. 

"A  little  over  a  year  ago  Mrs.  Leslie  was 
suddenly  summoned  to  the  home  of  her  dead 
husband's  mother.  She  went  at  once,  and  was 
brought  to  the  bedside  of  the  dying  woman, 
whose  husband  had  died  three  years  before. 
The  old  woman  was  sorely  repentant.  She  got 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         253 

Mrs.  Leslie's  story,  obtained  Mrs.  Leslie's  for- 
giveness, then  summoned  her  lawyer  and  made 
a  new  will. 

"I  was  the  lawyer,"  said  Mr.  Coleman,  re- 
laxing into  a  smile.  "And  I  shed  no  tears 
when  old  Mrs.  Leslie  left  one  bare  dollar  to 
that  spinster  sister  of  hers  who  had  intercepted 
the  letters.  To  Mrs.  Leslie,  Bob's  mother, 
the  old  lady  left  an  income  of  six  thousand  a 
year,  and  to  Bob,  with  his  mother  as  executor, 
an  estate  valued  at  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mil- 
lion." 

"How  much  is  that?"  asked  Mose,  "enough 
to  support  him?" 

"Enough  to  support  him,"  answered  the 
lawyer,  "and  to  help  old  friends  like  Mose  and 
his  wife  to  be  comfortable  for  life." 

"I  tell  you  something,  sir,  and  I  lie  not  to 
you.  I  always  tole  my  wife  Anna  we  will  not 
go  to  the  poorhouse." 

"And  you  were  right,  Mose.  To  continue: 
The  old  lady,  having  made  her  will,  very  shortly 
afterward  died;  and  I,  who  had  known  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Leslie  before  their  marriage,  took  up 
Bob's  case.  Of  course  the  thing  got  into  the 
papers,  almost  before  we  put  detectives  on  the 
trail.  On  the  morning  of  July  fifth,  just  a 
year  ago  and  a  day,  we  traced  Evans  as  far  as 
Dubuque.  In  fact,  two  of  our  men  came  to 


256         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

the  house,  and  just  as  they  made  sure  that  they 
had  trailed  the  right  man  Evans  and  the  boy 
disappeared." 

"But  why  did  Evans  hold  the  boy  kid- 
naped all  these  years?"  asked  Tom. 

"So  far  as  I  can  make  out,"  answered  Mr. 
Coleman,  "he  counted  on  the  death  of  the 
mother.  She  was  thought  to  be  dying  when 
he  stole  the  boy.  He  knew  the  Leslie  family, 
and  he  knew  that  they  were  ready  to  forgive. 
Bob  would  inherit  a  fortune.  That,  I  believe, 
is  the  reason  why  he  tried  to  marry  young  Mrs. 
Leslie." 

"I  think/'  said  Tom  Temple,  "that  I  can 
finish  the  story.  When  Evans  abandoned 
Bob  in  the  woodlands  I  discovered  the  young 
cherub.  It  was  the  finest  discovery  I  ever 
made.  I  really  thought  at  the  time  that  I  was 
entertaining  a  young  cherub;  I  didn't  know 
that  it  was  only  a  young  heir.  Of  course,  your 
detectives,  not  knowing  that  Evans  and  Bob 
had  parted  company,  got  on  the  wrong  trail. 
They  followed  me,  they  found  me  in  the  hos- 
pital, and  concluded  they  had  been  on  a  false 
scent,  and  so  started  off  on  some  other  trail, 
while  Bob,  as  a  member  of  the  Reade  family, 
slipped  into  Cincinnati.  But  how  in  the  long 
run  did  you  discover  Bob?" 

"Mrs.  Leslie,"  replied  the  lawyer,  "made  the 
discovery  herself.  It  was  that  picture  in  the 


HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR         257 

Catholic  Telegraph,  a  picture,  by  the  way, 
which  would  never  have  appeared  had  it  not 
been  for  Bob's  failure  to  come  out  first  in  the 
contest.  It  was  a  lucky  failure. 

"When  Bob  was  a  little  baby  he  had  the 
singular  habit  of  putting  his  hand  under  his 
chin  and  gazing  dreamily  into  space — a  habit, 
I  may  add,  which  his  father  had.  When  Mrs. 
Leslie  saw  that  picture  she  felt  sure  that  it 
must  be  her  own  dear  child,  over  whose  loss 
she  had  grieved  for  nearly  fourteen  years. 
Within  an  hour  she  made  hasty  inquiries.  She 
learned  enough  to  make  her  feel  sure.  To- 
gether we  visited  Pioneer  Street,  only  to  learn 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tom  Temple  had  kidnaped 
the  boy  again.  We  got  the  next  train,  we  hur- 
ried to  Dubuque,  we  kept  the  lines  busy,  and, 
after  the  most  strenuous  day  in  all  my  legal 
career,  we  landed  our  little  heir  in  the  home  of 
Mose." 

"Well,"  said  Anita,  "Bob  said  this  is  a  per- 
fect day.  I  heard  him,  and  it  is." 

"Here  they  come,"  said  Tom  Reade. 

Masculine  cheers  and  feminine  screams 
greeted  the  happiest  boy  in  the  United  States 
and  the  sweet-faced  woman  in  black,  from 
whose  features  had  gone  forever  the  sadness 
and  the  longing  of  a  mother  bewailing  her  lost 
child. 

"We  have  had  a  happy  hour,"   said  the 


258         HIS  LUCKIEST  YEAR 

happy  mother.  "Bob  has  told  me  of  all  his 
friends.  He  has  told  me  enough  to  assure  me 
of  what  I  already  had  surmised,  that  God  had 
watched  over  him  through  the  dearest  friends 
a  boy  could  have.  No  matter  how  long  I  live, 
my  heart,  I  trust,  will  ever  carry  a  sense  of 
gratitude  to  all  who  have  so  nobly  befriended 
my  boy." 

"And,"  added  Bob,  giving  his  mother  a 
glance  of  love  and  pride,  "it's  all  fixed.  Mother 
and  I  are  going  to  travel  and  get  acquainted. 
And  she's  going  to  live  up  here  in  Iowa.  And 
next  year,  Tom  and  Matt,  I'm  going  to  " 

Bob  paused  and  smiled. 

"To  Campion  College?"  cried  both  boys 
breathlessly. 

And  Bob's  answer  was  drowned  in  a  chorus 
of  voices  singing  triumphantly: 

Campion  will  shine  to-night, 
Campion  will  shine, 
Campion  will  shine  to-night, 
Campion  will  shine, 
Campion  will  shine  to-night, 
Campion  will  shine, 
When  the  sun  goes  down 
And  the  moon  goes  up 
Campion  will  shine. 

THE  END 

PRINTED  BY  BENZIGER  BROTHERS,  KEW  YOST. 


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